


A Kitchen Knife Is Not An Appropriate Weapon

by Juneybug



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Canon Events in Background, Drama, Gen, Non-Warden/Champion/Inquisitor OC, Orlais, Val Royeaux
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-20
Updated: 2019-03-20
Packaged: 2019-05-09 12:47:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 27,830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14716332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Juneybug/pseuds/Juneybug
Summary: When you're a nobody living on the streets, the only way to go is up. COMPLETE.





	1. Chantry

**Author's Note:**

> Beta-ed by Luthor, she's also on Ao3 and way more awesome than I am. :)

“Kid!”

 _Crap crap crap,_ Dalen thinks to herself as she frantically shoves the last piece of food in her mouth. She’d hoped that they wouldn’t notice one measly bread roll missing, but the chef appears to be on one of his smarter days. She slowly chews the pastry as she huddles up in her hidey hole, watching the pale white skirts flutter around the table.

“Maker’s breath, what did she do now?”

That’s Sister Toinette’s voice. Bad news, that. Horrible news.

“She stole from the kitchen again! This is the last drop, I’m telling you. I refuse to work myself to death just so the little rabbit can steal everything the moment I turn my back!”

He sounds furious. He always sounds furious, and she can deal with that, but now that Sister Toinette is involved and clearly out for her hide, it would be best for her to keep away from the Cathedral for a few days. She begins to crawl, listening to the hushed murmurs of the Sisters setting up the table. They’re worried about his temper of course, and one of them leaves to check the courtyard for her.

Dalen stops crawling and quietly plops down onto the ground, pulling her scabbed knees to her chest. Even if she could make her way under the table near the entrance, she’ll be found as soon as she steps outside and get dragged back in. Before she can come up with an alternate plan, however, a fork loudly clashes to the ground right by where she’s crouching.

The woman kneels down to pick up the damned thing, and they make eye contact.

“Found her!”

Things are not going great for the little girl. The sister grabs her by the ear and drags her out from under the table, towards the shouting.

“Thief!” accuses Sister Toinette, her pretty face wrinkled as if she just ate something sour. “Have you no shame? Divine Justinia saves you from Maker knows what, we let you stay with us, clothe you, feed you and this is how you thank us! What do you have to say for yourself?!”

Sister Toinette is correct, though not on all accounts. The event she’s describing took place around Belle Marché, where she mistakenly thought she might get away with stealing an apple or two. The farmer gave chase, and unlike other merchants she dealt with in the past, he was actually able to keep up with the little elf – they went all around the market before Dalen decided to lose him by the upper balconies. She attempted to leap up on a low roof, but her bare foot slipped over the iron rails and she plummeted down. There were multiple audible cracks, and the pain was so intense that she passed out almost instantly. If Divine Justinia wasn’t out on an impromptu evening stroll and decided to show mercy on the poor thing, she probably wouldn’t have woken up at all.

That being said, things are far from great. The sisters indeed allow her to sleep in their quarters and give her warm clothes when it’s cold out. But she’s constantly being sent on errands, she rarely gets enough sleep and they give her about one meal a day... that is, if someone remembers. They usually don’t, because she’s a tiny little thing and she’s smart enough to keep her mouth shut, knowing full well that the charity of the sisters extends only as far as the Divine can see. And the Divine is a nice lady, in all fairness to her, but she’s too busy to look beyond the duties that come with a position like that.

“We can’t just let her out back to the streets, can we?” asks the one next to Toinette. “Divine Justinia said...”

“Her Holiness made her wishes clear,” says Sister Toinette, her brows knitting together in pure spite. “But that does not mean that we have to tolerate betrayal. The brat must be taught a lesson. Lavinia, please take her to my quarters.”

A lesson?!

The child turns to Lavinia, silently begging with her eyes. Lavinia has been kind to her in the past, even before she was taken in by the Chantry. If anyone can stop what’s about to happen, it’s her.

“Must we do this?” objects Sister Lavinia. “She’s just a child, and I doubt her stomach is big enough to cause an actual problem in the kitchens...”

“I know for a fact that this is not her first transgression.” Sister Toinette crosses her arms and looks down at Dalen again. “Just the other day, I saw you making off with a full tray of food-”

“I was taking that to Sister Claudette!” shouts Dalen, louder than she initially intended – she’s certain that her right ear is twice as long as it was before. It’s not the worst pain she’s had to endure, but it’s enough for that first spark of rebellion.

“You know the first thing I do upon waking up, Sister?” she asks as she shakes herself free from her captor’s grasp. “Empty and wash chamber pots. I make the beds, I sweep the floors, I help carry breakfast food and when I’m done, I spend the rest of my day running around the Cathedral for you. I am grateful, and I know that I need to earn my keep but the last I had was a slice of bread and an apple. That was two days ago. Your last meal was honey roasted vegetables and a bowl of soup that I brought to you after you were done singing the Chant of Light – you know, the part about being charitable towards the less fortunate!”

They are now staring at her, because they’ve never heard her say this much and this loudly. Dalen knows that the smart thing to do is to keep her mouth shut and endure whatever punishment Sister Toinette deems fit, but at this moment she has no problems burning this particular bridge, as the weather has begun to turn warm and she knows a few places she can spend the night in relative safety. Not to mention the ease of getting food and having to do less work.

Her outburst has gathered the attention of quite a few others, including a person she’s actively tried to avoid for a few days now. She’s heard some of the sisters talk about the red haired woman before; gossiping is no doubt a sin in the eyes of the Maker, but in Val Royeaux, people tend to ignore that particular verse of the Chant.

Sister Toinette sees the woman too, and wastes no time in involving her in the matter. “Sister Leliana!” she calls out, her voice tinted with an appropriate amount of sadness and worry. “Please help us deal with this delinquent. Maker forgive me, I just can’t find it in me to be patient anymore!”

The woman approaches them. She’s wearing the same Chantry robes, but Dalen can tell that she’s not like the others – her facial expression, the way she scouts the room before speaking, even the way she walks is different. Dalen knows how to size up people, as she used to steal quite a bit before getting involved with the Chantry, and what little instinct she has is screaming at her to disengage.

That’s not really an option.

“What’s the matter, Sister Toinette?” she asks, giving the blonde sister a calculated glance.

“The child has stolen from the kitchens yet again.” Sister Toinette is good at playing the victim; her voice trembles, there’s even a tear or two ready to be shed. “Marcel has been working so hard for tonight’s celebrations, and we’ve all helped, except for her! Divine Justinia’s mercy is wasted upon this beast.”

Dalen remains quiet and averts her gaze to the ground. Why fight when the battle is already lost? Despite her venom, Sister Toinette is well liked by all. Clearly there’s no use trying to defend against that.

“Does she steal often?” questions the red headed woman.

“Yes!” exclaims the chef. “All the time!”

“It must be a pretty important matter, then. Allow me to take care of this. You may all resume your duties.”

Dalen cautiously looks up, to see them walking away. Sister Lavinia gives her a sad, pitying look, but walks away just like the others. It was foolish to think she might be of any help; they are all so terrified to stand out that they’d rather shut their eyes.

Sister Leliana watches her for a moment, then asks for her name.

“They call me Dalen.” They mostly called her ‘kid’, but saying that outloud would be ridiculous.

“Da’len?” she repeats, surprised. “Are you Dalish, by any chance?”

“I don’t know. But the man who called me that word was Dalish, I think. He had the tattoos.”

The man had caught her stealing, when she was even younger. And instead of getting mad at her, he’d simply laughed and ruffled her hair. He even gave her a small trinket; a wooden miniature, delicately carved in the shape of a halla, small enough to hide in her fist.

It’s a fond memory, one she often thinks about, because she does not have many of them.

“The Hero of Ferelden was Dalish, you know.” The woman smiles warmly at Dalen. “She told me many tales about her clan.”

“That’s... nice.”

She doesn’t want to be rude, but at the same time she has no idea what to say. Obviously everyone has heard about the Grey Warden who sacrificed her life to end the Blight... but Ferelden is far away, which makes it irrelevant as far as Dalen is concerned.

The sister must have noticed her discomfort, because she places a hand on the child’s shoulder to ease her. “I heard what you were saying earlier,” she says. “You’re not in any trouble. I’ll make sure you’re well fed and taken care of - you may even join me at the feast, if you like.”

Dalen is fully prepared to say no, but... when you’re this hungry, it’s very hard to say no.

So, when the sun sets and it’s time for the feast, she sits by the woman who helped The Hero of Ferelden end the Blight. She listens to her wild tales as she fills her stomach with vegetable stew and roasted ham, and is even allowed to take a sip of their wine; just a small taste, nothing more. But it’s hard to ignore the looks the sisters are giving her; Toinette must be angry that she’s seated next to the local hero instead of getting spanked. She doesn’t utter a single word to her, but gives her the nastiest of looks when everyone else is busy ooh-ing and aah-ing over the dessert... and Dalen realizes that perhaps, in the long run, it would be wiser to just stay quiet and accept whatever punishment the woman intended for her. No matter what she does after tonight, she will never be welcome here, not truly.

Later in the night, after the guests clear out and the table is cleared, Dalen sneaks into the room where her cot is and shoves her hand under it to gather her only possession, valuable only to her – the tiny halla. She pauses for a brief moment to watch it glisten under the candle’s flame... then closes her hand around it with determination.

At bedtime, the sisters notice that she’s missing, but they don’t look very far.


	2. Winter

It doesn’t snow in Val Royeaux.

That’s all Dalen can think as she makes her way in the night. _At least there’s no snow._ The wind is horrible, and her blanket does nothing when it rains, but thankfully there’s no snow to cover the ground and freeze her feet.

Her brief visit to the apothecary went well. The owner of the store would probably kill them both if he knew, but his assistant kept her end of the bargain, giving her a handful of herbs. It would have been much better if she’d given her a proper potion, but as it turns out, Royans frequent the shop not for weak health, but for beauty. Extract this flower’s juice and mix it with a paste of this plant and supposedly it’s the best skin tightening cream ever... So she did not have any healing potions to give, but she had quite a bit of elfroot, and some rarer plants past their prime.

Cold wind blows again, and Dalen shivers into her blanket, trying to wrap it tighter around her body. If she gets sick too – no, best not think about these things. She forces herself to move forward; she’s getting closer to her destination anyway...

Just then, she hears the clinking footsteps of a guardsman coming up the stairs, and Dalen quickly ducks behind an archway, hoping that the shadows will be enough to hide her small figure. She leans against the wall and holds her breath, listening to the armored man get closer and closer.

Guards are dangerous when they’re making their nightly rounds around town, keeping an eye out for gangs and thieves alike. Dalen is neither, not unless she can help it, but she does have some herbs that she won’t be able to explain how she came to own. It’s better to avoid them, rather than having to run from them. _Oh Maker, please don’t let him see me..._

The guard’s footsteps get louder and he enters her view, and Dalen stares in horror at the image of a flaming sword engraved onto the shield on his back. Her mouth goes dry. Guards, she can deal with. But a Templar? What is he doing out here at this time of night, anyway? Did somebody escape from the Spire? Are they hiding nearby? This spells bad news for Dalen and her friends. She bites her lips to keep herself from whimpering, and slowly peeks out from the archway.

Knowing the upper balconies, she realizes that he’s heading upstairs – there’s nothing but a gazebo up there, with bushes surrounding it. It’s a good place to take a breather during the summer, but right now all it has is violent gusts of wind and a good view of the city at nighttime. He might spend a few minutes looking out for whatever it is he’s searching for, but he’ll be back for sure.

Dalen has encountered Templars before, but has never been in close proximity of one. There were quite a few at the Cathedral, guarding the doors, guarding important visitors from out of town, guarding the Divine... but the majority of them stayed with the mages at the Spire. Seeing one out here makes no sense, especially a lone one.

In a few minutes, she hears him come back. The moonlight reflecting off of his armor blinds her briefly before he leaves her sight, heading down the stairs once more. Dalen takes a deep breath to calm her nerves, and steps out of the archway to continue walking towards her destination.

They’ve chosen to take shelter in a private courtyard tonight. There’s no way of accessing it from the street level because of the walls surrounding the garden, but a few months back Dalen had managed to get in from the upper balconies. The owner of the house frequently leaves the city for business, so it’s a good place to spend the night if there are no other options.

Dalen looks around to make sure there are no guards or Templars to witness her, then carefully pulls herself to the other side of the stone rails to climb down to the top of the wall... from there, she can easily grab onto the branches of the rather conveniently placed apple tree. Its bark is harsh against her skin, but a few scratches on her hands and feet is much more preferable to leaping off the wall and risking a broken bone.

“Did you get it?”

The voice comes from the farthest corner, where Alec and Cy are huddled in together under a single blanket. Cy is asleep, but Alec leaves the warmth of the blanket to speak with her.

“I got it,” she replies quietly. “I also took a look around. Did you see a Templar around here?”

“A Templar?” The boy hugs himself, and throws an uncomfortable glance towards the balcony. “Why would there be any Templars here?”

“How am I supposed to know? I just know that I saw one, and I don’t want to be caught trespassing. We should find some other place.”

“We can’t.”

Dalen follows his gaze towards the little boy. He’s paler than before... his lips are turning blue, as well. He probably won’t be able to move, and getting him down here was a pain in itself – getting him back up won’t be easy.

“The woman in the apothecary said to boil the herbs in clean water,” she informs. “So we will need to make fire, and find water. But if we light a fire here, we will get caught. And there’s no water. We have no other choice-”

“We can break in.”

The two of them look towards the door.

“Even if we didn’t need fire,  we can’t stay out here if they’re patrolling the area. You said that the merchant wasn’t home, and I haven't heard a single peep from inside.”

“I don’t know if we should do that,” she says, after a brief pause.

“Why?” Alec grins. “Don’t tell me you’re a lawful citizen.”

“Don’t be silly.” Dalen jokingly punches the boy on the arm. “I’m just saying... if we break in, the merchant will surely notice and it’ll make it riskier to use this spot.” It’s a good spot, too... the owner of the house never picks the apples, and never notices when a few of them go missing.

“Well... we can’t leave, and we can’t stay out here. We don’t have any choice.”

Cy wakes up then, and panics when he realizes that Alec is not with him.

“I’ll stay with him,” says Alec. “Find a way in, will you?” And before she can object, he walks back to his brother and kneels beside him, speaking to him in hushed tones to alleviate his fear.

Dalen huffs in annoyance, then pushes her hair back and walks up to the door.

There are two ways into the house, but upon closer inspection, only one of them makes sense. The door’s locking mechanism seems to be brand new, and would pose quite a challenge, especially with improvised tools. The window is a much better choice – it’s small and a little too high, but Dalen recognizes the type of latch.

Finding a tool proves too difficult. There are garden tools laying about, and the most promising one among them is a trowel of sorts; it’s flat and pointy, but just like Alec’s blade, too thick to go into the thin gap. She uses the dagger to fashion something out of a twig, and despite knowing that it’s not strong enough to actually push the latch, spends a few minutes trying her very best because she really doesn’t want to try her next idea.

The twig breaks, just like she thought it would.

Dalen turns towards the boys then, and sees that they're still talking. Cy still looks tired even though he slept through most of the night. He must be hungry, too... and he certainly needs fluids... She sighs from deep within, kneels on the floor and reaches into her pocket to take out her miniature halla.

It’s as beautiful as the day it was given to her – she’s never seen an actual halla before, so she can’t comment on its likeness, but it’s graceful, expertly carved and definitely sturdier than the twig she tried to use. Her fingers caress the curved antlers... they’re much thinner than the blade, so she assumes they would fit through the gap. The only question is whether they’re long enough to reach the latch.

She inspects it further to find the best antler for her purposes, and finds one that seems to be the longest and sturdiest... it’s connected to a thicker part of the wood, which gives it a good chance to survive against the damned latch. She sends a quiet apology to the man who gifted the halla to her, then reaches for the dagger.

The wood is sturdier than she thought, and it’s doing a number on the blade’s edge. Unyielding, she uses a sawing motion to chop off all the antlers but the one she needs. It takes a good while, and by the time she’s done, her cheeks are wet with tears... she carelessly wipes them off and stands up.

Holding the halla by its body, she rises on her tiptoes once more and shoves it to the gap... and the latch gives way after one strong push.

“It’s done,” she quietly calls out to Alec. “Let’s carry him inside.”


	3. Winter, conclusion

Finding shelter was a good idea, though Alec saying it over and over does not help.

The night is the coldest she’s ever had; they layer their blankets and sleep side by side next to the fire, and Dalen still feels the cold. At least they managed to boil the herbs in water, and Cy’s face did get some of its color back, but he still sniffles in his sleep. She doesn’t know what’s wrong with him.

“He’s getting better,” Alec insists.

“Maybe a little bit, but he’s going to get worse if we don’t do something. And it’s not like we can stay here forever – there’s no food.”

“Calm down, will you? I’ll find food.”

“You don’t  know how to pick pockets, you don’t know how to pick locks and you’re a terrible runner.”

“I’ll figure something out.”

Cy begins to cough in his sleep, and Alec rubs his tiny shoulder to soothe him.

“We should take him to the Chantry,” says Dalen, once he settles back into an uncomfortable sleep.

“Either you’re joking, or you got what he’s got.”

“Shut up you, I’m serious.” She lowers her voice. “He needs a healer, and there’s no way we can afford one. We can’t even afford any more herbs.”

“You told me how horrible that place was, and now you want to go back there?”

“Not me.” They probably wouldn’t let her in. “You two. You’re not elves, they’d let you in.”

“No.”

“Alec-”

“No,” he repeats with a sharp frown. “It’s not even a choice. Just no.”

“What will we do, then?” she asks, barely concealing her annoyance. “Tell me your brilliant idea. How do we make him feel better?”

“I know a place where I can get some food, alright? Few loaves of bread, a bottle of milk... maybe even some fresh fruit. That’s what he needs. Food. Not a leashed mage doing Maker knows what.”

She relents, because clearly he isn’t listening to reason.

Alec leaves before sunrise, promising that he’ll be back in a couple of hours with enough food to fill all three bellies. His optimism does nothing to alleviate her mood. There’s very little to do, so she simply sits down by the sleeping child to gather her thoughts.

Dalen has never had friends before. Val Royeaux is not exactly known for its homeless; if hard times come onto a family, they simply gather their things and move on to a place where it’s a bit easier to find work. There have been some instances where she helped another or received help, but they always parted ways shortly after. She’d met the boys only a couple of weeks ago; they’d just arrived to town on their own, both scared out of their minds. Why she offered help, she’ll never know – but she’s glad not to be on her own.

Cyril’s situation definitely makes things harder, though. Food is always good to have, but it can’t perform miracles, and Cyril definitely needs something that neither of them have. He needs more.

He needs...

Screw it.

“Cy.”

The boy mumbles in his sleep, but his eyes remain closed. Dalen places a hand on his cheek and repeats his name, coaxing him out of sleep.

“W... what is it?” asks the boy, slowly blinking. “Where’s Alec?”

“I found a better place for us.” Dalen smiles in a reassuring manner, hoping the boy won’t question the scenario. “He wanted to make sure it was good enough before taking you.”

“Where is it?”

“Come on, I’ll show you. I’m sure you’ll love it.”

He looks tired, but he does his best to comply, bless his heart. At least the herbs have given him enough strength to walk; he still has to lean on her a bit, but he’s walking... for a moment she doubts her decision, but pushes it out of her mind immediately. A handful of leaves won’t bring this boy back to full health. He needs to rest, he needs to eat well, and there’s only one place in the city that can afford to provide that.

***

Waiting is the worst.

Dalen is sitting on the rails by the merchant’s house, peoplewatching. Every light haired boy she sees sends sharp pangs of guilt to her chest. It had to be done, there’s no way around it.

She doesn’t know where Alec is, so there is nothing to do but to wait.

He’s going to be angry. He’s always wanted things his way, for his brother’s sake. He thought he knew what was best for the child. He should understand that Dalen did what she did out of concern... but he won’t.

Hours later, she finally spots Alec walking on the street, just behind a well dressed couple... to his credit, he’s managed to find a single big loaf. He seems down, deep in thought.

Dalen takes a deep breath to calm her nerves, then leaps off the balcony to face him.

He doesn’t notice her until he very  nearly bumps into her. He turns to apologize, but his face hardens immediately.

“Why in Maker’s name have you left him alone? I told you to stay with him!”

Her stomach clenches, but she forces herself to look him in the eye. “I took him to the Chantry.”

“You- you did what?”

“I saved his life,” she says, just a little louder. “If you want to be mad at me, go right ahead. Better that than having to bury him.”

“ _ He was getting better! _ ”

“I spoke to a sister I met before, one of the nicer ones too. Told him Cyril has an older brother. You’re welcome to stay with them through the winter, or as long as you like – she may even find somebody to take you in. Just admit it Alec, you’re not an urchin like I am. You’ve had a mother and a father, a proper house, even a Maker damned puppy! You don’t have to live like-”

Dalen is blinded by the punch that lands right on her face, and the pain thunders behind her closed eyes. She’s utterly disoriented, but she clenches her fists anyway, getting ready to fight. Once she gathers herself however, she realizes that Alec is down on the floor, hands over his face, as if he’s the one who got sucker punched.

“He was showing signs of magic,” he manages to sputter out between sobs. “That’s why we left Kirkwall because he was always so scared, and mother said he had to go to the Gallows, Cyril hated that place... I stole enough money to take ship, to get him away from that blighted place, I left  _ everything _ behind for it and you just handed him up on a silver platter anyway!”

She’s frozen on the spot. It makes sense now. It makes sense that he was so vehemently against going to the Chantry for help despite their need for it, it makes sense that there was a Templar practically on their doorstep – he wasn’t looking for a runaway mage, was he? People are beginning to stare and sneer at their mess, and Dalen feels like each stare hits her like more punches, though none of them are as painful as the one thrown by Alec.

“I’m sorry,” she murmurs. “But he was dying. I know it must be hard to swallow, but... anything is better than death, even the Templars.”

Alec is a shaking, sobbing mess and Dalen wants to help him, but it’s not that hard to realize that she’s not welcome to do so, not anymore. It’s ruined, beyond salvage. So she turns around and walks away, leaving him alone with his troubles... and then she’s running through the streets like demons are chasing after her, eager to get away, to put it behind her.

She was wrong on one account, though.

Waiting definitely wasn’t the worst.


	4. Madame

The Summer Bazaar is bustling with excitement. Merchants from all around Thedas have opened stalls to proudly display their wares as commoners and nobles alike gather to browse and make purchases in anticipation of the upcoming Summerday.

Times like these are excellent opportunities to make coin, and Dalen is ready for the occasion. She’s now old enough that she manages to look like she belongs, at least after a quick bath and some preemptive thievery to afford better looking clothes. She’s pulled her light ginger hair into a not too shabby bun, and instead of her usual ill fitting attire, she’s managed to find a proper tunic. She even has a cheap mask on. She doesn’t know if she can actually fool anyone into thinking she’s a servant, but at least she looks just a little bit older, which would certainly help if she were to get caught.

For a while, Dalen browses the stalls like the rest of the people, using the soft fabrics, flowers and imported goods as an excuse to study potential marks. Nobles are not to be trifled with, unless she has a very good opportunity;  she mainly keeps an eye on their accompanying servants, as she’ll be in less trouble if she fails to be subtle about her tactics.

Her first mark is a lone servant browsing a stall displaying a large selection of flowers. She stands by him, posing as an interested customer but doing her best to appear to onlookers as though they’re servants of the same house... and just when the man leans forward to inspect the petals of a particularly eye catching rose, she makes her move to reach for his coinpurse. After that, it’s a matter of hiding it and making a subtle getaway; she pretends to be unsure about her mistress’ stance on such bright colors and wishes the merchant a good day.

People don’t really pay her much attention, that’s the only good thing about being an elf in Val Royeaux; it helps her evade notice, and she actually spends the next hour amassing a good enough amount that would help get a few days’ worth of food, but more importantly, cold water. The city gets quite a bit of sun, and it helps to be able to afford things that would keep her from passing out due to heat... she could even afford to splurge on an ice cream cone; it’s somewhat of a luxury, but there’s nothing wrong with the occasional treat to keep her spirits high.

Her successes in the past hour makes her feel slightly ambitious, so as her last mark, she picks someone that appears a bit more promising. She’s been watching the woman for a while now; she’s well dressed and the merchants greet her with the utmost respect, so Dalen assumes the woman is either a noble or a big spender, most likely both. She’s with her servant, who looks far stronger and taller, though she’s been lugging around the basket full of goods for a while now and it’s clearly taking a toll on her. She approaches the stall they’re browsing, and throws a sneaky glance towards the basket.

There are no food items, which is expected – why would a woman of her stature do her own grocery shopping, when she could easily send people to do it for her? There is a large box that probably contains clothes, a few knick knacks that appear to be impulse purchases... useless, that’s useless too... and then a particular shade of purple piques her interest. Isn’t there a jewelry store nearby that uses these? Yes, they always wrap those boxes in purple ribbon. This would be a good steal; of course she has no use for jewelry, but she knows where she can get a good sum for it... and if she puts that money to good use, it would come a long way towards making her a little bit more comfortable.

The servant is standing beside as her mistress browses a stall selling hand crafted masks. The majority of these are far too garish for everyday uses, but there are a couple that are absolutely exquisite.

“Do you take special orders?” asks the noblewoman, without so much as a glance towards the merchant, her full attention on a specific mask. “I quite like the design of this, but the gems are obviously fake.”

“But that’s impossible, milady! I purchased them from a very reputable source...”

“Even if I am wrong, which I doubt, emeralds are old news – Lady Emelina wore them to a soirée and nearly everyone else spent the rest of the evening laughing behind her back! I’d die if anything like that happened to me. Now, what would bring out this gorgeous enamel...”

The woman is thoroughly distracted, deep in thought, and her servant looks as if she’s about to pass out any moment. Dalen slowly approaches the stall, pretending to be intrigued by a particularly hideous leather mask and then reaches into the servant’s basket.

It appears that, despite the hot, humid weather, the servant was not as out of it as she thought. As soon as Dalen wraps her hand around the box, the woman deftly turns and grabs her wrist. “What do you think you’re doing, elf?!”

She panics, because she’s never been called out in this manner before. She’s been caught many times; everyone gets caught at one point or another, usually when they’re just starting out, but Dalen always managed not to get grabbed like this.

“Oh, my!” the mask merchant exclaims, with both anger and a slight tinge of fear. “I do apologize milady, I should have noticed the thief immediately! I’ll get the guards right away.”

Guards? Shit! Dalen attempts to free herself, but the servant’s grip is strong. “Let go of me!” she shouts and digs her fingernails into her – what is this woman made of, iron?!

“No need for guards,” says the noblewoman, still calm despite everything. “She’s a servant, is she not? I do not recognize her mask. Thea?”

The servant, ‘Thea’, grabs the edge of the mask and tugs on it, snapping the weak knot of the ribbon around her head. Then her eyes open in surprise. “I don’t think she’s a servant, Madame,” she tells her mistress. “She’s but a child. Barely 10, I’d say.”

“A child? Interesting... though not surprising, seeing that the mask is extremely low quality – probably clay, far too thick to allow the skin to breathe. Whoever she stole it from must be in great relief to be rid of such an ugly thing.”

The merchant opens his mouth again, but closes it without a sound.

“Sunstone! That’s what I was thinking of, but I couldn’t remember what it was called – don’t you hate when that happens? Anyway... I would like this mask, the exact same way that it is, but instead of these – what did you call them, ‘emeralds’? I suggest you change your source, monsieur, because whoever sold you these has clearly taken advantage of your addled mind – I would like some sunstone inlets. You may place the order under the name Amelie Duval, and I’ll send someone on the day before the festivities to pick it up.”

“But milady, I don’t–”

“Come, Thea. Bring our would-be thief, too – let us not bother the guards, they must be sweating buckets under all the metal.”

“As you wish, Madame.”

***

Dalen has never heard of the Duvals, which isn’t surprising – Val Royeaux might be a giant rumor mill, but knowing who wore what to which event does very little to help those who are on the streets.

As they ascend the staircase that leads to the entrance, the double doors are opened by another servant, who steps aside and takes a deep bow as Madame Duval steps inside.

“Welcome home, Madame!”

“Thank you, Nadine – and might I say, it’s a pleasure to not have to wait in front of my own door! May your feet remain as quick as they were today.”

“Ah, erm... Madame is too kind.”

“Clearly,” she muses, as she closes her parasol and places it over an antique looking table. “Now, onto the matter at hand... first, I’ll need some chilled wine, tell Rémy to bring it to the garden. I’ll also have to speak with the child, but she definitely needs to be a bit more presentable; I get itchy looking at that tangled mop over her head. Thea, you’ll take care of our purchases, I want everything in their proper place.”

And with that, she saunters off through the foyer to Maker knows where... after she disappears, the one named Thea speaks up.

“I’ll get to my share of the work, then. Don’t let the child escape, she’s been trying to squirm her way out since I caught her trying to steal from me.”

“But what am I supposed to do?”

“Do something about the hair, and maybe the dirty feet. You’re still on thin ice, by the sound of things, so I’d do my best if I were you.”

Nadine looks pained for a moment, then presses her lips together with determination and grabs Dalen by the scruff of her neck and shuts the door.

The house isn’t as big as Dalen thought it would be, but it makes up for what it lacks in size with its luxury. There are fresh flowers pretty much everywhere, the carpets are so soft under her feet that she feels a bit guilty walking over them. Each new room they step into gets a new, bigger reaction: the dining room, the sitting room, even the hallway is so gloriously decorated that she’s absolutely certain these people have more money than she could imagine.

The process of getting her presentable is quick, but painful. The woman, Nadine, fills a small tub with water and Dalen has to stand inside as the woman mercilessly rubs the grime off of her skin, leaving her red and tender. It’s time for her hair, then – it takes much longer to free her hair of tangles and the odd bit of twig that has somehow gotten stuck; her scalp screams in protest as many strands leave their roots to get stuck on the bristles.

If all baths are like this, she’s glad she doesn’t have regular access to it. What’s wrong with taking a dive in the sea once or twice a year?

“What am I supposed to make you wear?” screeches the woman. “We don’t have any child sized clothes here. Oh Maker, she’s going to fire me, I just know it...”

“You could give me my clothes back.” Standing naked is a bit awkward, even if there aren’t any other people in there. “They’re clean.”

“They most certainly aren’t, and I don’t have the time to wash the damned things... Here, we’ll have to make do with this somehow.”

And so, Dalen steps out into the garden, Nadine in tow to make sure she doesn’t try to escape, though she’s a little too overwhelmed to think on her feet right now. She can see Madame already; she’s sitting under some grapevines, reading as she sips her drink. She pays them no attention until Nadine bows and presents the newly bathed girl.

It feels uncomfortable to be looked at like that, and if the woman is aware of it, she doesn’t show – she studies her from head to toe, her gaze briefly lingering at her bare feet.

“That looks better,” she concludes, “though frankly it couldn’t get any worse. How long had it been since your last bath?”

“I’m not sure.” It’s a better answer than ‘never’, but not by much.

“You may go back to your duties, Nadine.”

“Yes Madame.”

And now she’s alone, and thoroughly intimidated.

“What’s your name?” asks Madame Duval as she reaches for her glass once more.

“Dalen. Um, may I ask-”

“How old are you?”

“Thirteen, maybe?”

“I assume you don’t have any parents.”

“Everyone has parents,” Dalen replies, shrugging. “I just don’t know mine.”

The woman looks amused by that. “I suppose that is true.”

“If I may...” Dalen clears her throat, unsure of the best way to approach the situation. “Why didn’t you hand me to the guards?”

“That would be quite a waste, though it would teach you a lesson... you clearly need it, being a thief and such.”

“I’d rather be a thief than-”

“So it doesn’t bother you that there are consequences to your actions? What do you think would happen if you had successfully stolen from Thea?”

Dalen doesn’t think of such things – she can’t afford to. Living on the streets requires a bit of selfishness, to even out others’ fortune and her misfortune. Still, she realizes that this isn’t what the woman wants to hear, so she does her best to look distraught and turns her gaze towards the ground.

“She would either keep it to herself and use her own savings to replace the item, which would put a considerable dent in her well being. Or she would explain the situation to me and risk losing her job because I do not tolerate irresponsibility. She came from Ferelden during the Blight, and her job is the only thing that allows her to remain under a roof. She survived the darkspawn and yet a thirteen year old girl would be the thing that ruined her life. In that same vein, why do you think you’re on the streets? Could it be because someone else thought they had to do bad things in order to survive? Perhaps that’s why your parents are missing or dead. Do you see where I’m going with this?”

“What do you want me to do? Shall I apologize? What’s the point of all this?”

“Sit.”

Dalen looks around. There are no chairs nearby; there is a seat next to Madame on the bench, but obviously she can’t sit there... after a brief moment of pondering, she kneels on the floor, bringing her hands together on her lap. It’s uncomfortable, but seeing the situation, it would be better to remain as polite as possible.  

“Do you live at the Alienage?”

“Sometimes... well, rarely. If I have no other choice.”

“Why? Don’t you think your fellow elves would help you?”

“They would if they could, I’m sure.” It would be silly to expect their help just because their ears look the same... even if some are willing to spare a bit of food or a bed for the night, they can’t afford enough to make a difference, so Dalen rarely bothers. “Why are you asking me these questions?” she asks again. “What does any of it have to do with what I’ve done?”

“I have an offer,” says Madame Duval. “I was simply trying to gauge whether you’d refuse or not... and it doesn’t seem likely that you would, seeing that you have no money, no roof over your head and nobody to care about you.”

Her words are blunt, but her expression hasn’t changed; it’s like she’s discussing the weather or current events. But the part that upsets Dalen the most is the ‘offer’ – people rarely offer good things to the likes of her...

“I had to fire my personal attendant last week,” says the woman. “She was doing such a poor job that I simply could not tolerate her presence anymore. She was my third one in the past year... it’s becoming harder and harder to find good help. I spoke to a friend of mine about this just the other day, and she made an interesting suggestion. She said that if I could find someone younger, I could teach them exactly what I wanted, instead of merely hoping that they’re able. And at first I dismissed that idea, because it sounded too time consuming – why bother teaching someone when I can find someone who already knows all there is to know? That being said, I do recognize an opportunity when I see one... so the question is, dear girl, do you?”

“Are... you offering me a job?” Dalen asks, her eyes wide open.

“It would not be easy, of course. I’m not an easy person to deal with; I don’t have to be, I have enough money to be as frank as I like. That being said, anything would be better than having to rely on luck to survive, when you clearly have very little of it. So yes, I’m offering you a job... along with four walls, a roof and a steady income.”

“But why? I mean... why me? I nearly stole from you, and... I’m an elf!”

“Because you seem to be the type of person who wouldn’t shy away from hard work, because you were able to improvise when given a vague order, but most importantly... it’s convenient. I realize that I’d be taking a big risk by letting a thief into my house, but if this works out, I think it could be beneficial to both of us. As for you being elven... I do not mind. Elves make good servants; it’s either that or the Alienage. In your case, it’s worse than the Alienage, which should be more incentive for you to work harder, if you choose to, that is...”

Good things rarely happen to Dalen, so she’s certain that this cannot be as good as it sounds... but like the woman said, anything is better compared to being on the streets. At this point, it’s not even a choice. So she slowly stands up and takes a bow, similar to what she saw Nadine do.

“It would be an honor to work for you, Madame.”    

 


	5. Cerise

Summer attacks the Royans in full force.

Dalen exits through the double doors leading to the garden, tray of food at hand, and lets out an exhausted sigh. This is the only place she could find a bit of relief from the unforgiving heat during the busier days... sadly, there’s quite a bit of time left until she can take a breather. She follows the shade of a large tree towards the grapevines, where Madame Duval is waiting for her meal. Madame prefers to eat in the garden during the summers, though on occasion she wants her meals brought to her room.

She approaches the table and places the contents of the plate as quietly as possible. “Your food is ready.”

Madame raises a brow as she marks her place in her book. “Try again.”

_ Dammit. _ “Your food is ready, Madame?”

“Much better, thank you, Cerise.”

Dalen moves the chair for the woman to sit, then pushes it towards the table. “Would you like anything else, Madame?”

“Has Nadine spoken to you yet?”

“No,” she replies, unsure if she’s causing any trouble for the Antivan. “Shall I find her, Madame? I believe she’s tidying your chambers as we speak.”

“No, let us see what she does without any disturbances... and it would be better for me to inform you, anyway. I will be going to the theater this evening, and as my current lady’s maid, it’s her job to help me get ready for the event. However, I’m curious to see how you would perform... so, after teatime, you will assist Nadine, as she will be accompanying me. If you’re successful, we might focus on this side of your training.”

This is both good and bad news... Dalen hates having to clean, as it’s difficult for her to tell when things are as clean as they can be, but it’s not that hard to hold out someone’s clothes for them. That being said, the implication that Madame is willing to see how others do such tasks might put Nadine on edge, and the woman is already a challenge to begin with...

“I’ll make sure to tell her, Madame. Can I do anything else for you?”

“Nothing for now.” Madame begins to cut her steak. “You may return to your duties, Cerise.”

Dalen takes a bow and walks back into the house.

This Cerise thing is a bit difficult to get used to... Madame thinks it’s a much more pleasant sounding name than Dalen, which Dalen supposes is true, but it’s quite silly. And it always takes a second for her to realize she’s being summoned, which does nothing to put either of the Duvals in a good mood.

If only they would just give up and accept her as is...

She heads back to the kitchen to retrieve Monsieur’s food. Thea has prepared the tray just like Madame’s, and is already cleaning the pots. “You can eat after delivering his food,” she says. “Tell Nadine too, if you see her.”

“What about Rémy?”

“He’s with Monsieur Duval. They’re in the study. Go.”

Dalen has been following around Thea for the past month, helping her with her chores around the house to learn how to do them properly. Despite their rocky start, she hasn’t actually been that bad towards her... she hasn’t been good, but at least she doesn’t seem to be holding any grudges for the incident at the market.

Upstairs, she finds the door to the study closed... it’s a bit of a risk to interrupt their work, Monsieur gets awfully mad when she interrupts. But she was never told not to bring meals to the study, so she knocks, and hears a loud noise coming from inside. Did he drop something?

“Who is it?”

“It’s Da-  _ ahem, _ Cerise. I’ve brought your lunch, Monsieur!”

“One moment, we need- I need to put away some, uh, very important documents.”

So she waits, trying to ignore the weight of the tray, and enters when permitted to find Monsieur seated over his desk, with beads of sweat over his forehead. She expected the desk to be clear, but it’s actually covered with paperwork... Rémy notices it at the same time and rushes to make space, his face a rosy colour – it must be hotter than she thought; his hair is quite a mess, too... Quickly, she sets down Monsieur’s meal and stands back, holding the emptied tray in front of her like a shiny shield.

He begins to eat rather quickly, all the while showering them with various orders: “Rémy, you have fifteen minutes to have lunch. Return immediately, we must be done with letters by sundown. You – Cerise, was it? Do not disturb me until it’s time for dinner.”

“Yes Monsieur... except, are you not going to the theater with Madame this evening?”

“Do I look like I have time for silly plays?” he thunders. “Leave already!”

Dalen scampers out of there immediately. Rémy follows her a moment later and calmly shuts the door behind them.

“You just got yelled at for nothing,” he comments.

“I know! I was just asking...”

“That’s not what I mean. Do you think he wouldn’t know about the play? He and Madame discussed it during breakfast. You didn’t need to ask that question. Ergo, you just got yelled at for nothing.”

“Well... What if he’d forgotten? Wouldn’t I get yelled at then, for not reminding him?”

Rémy smooths his hair over his scalp as he gives the child a wry look. “Monsieur never forgets.”

The conversation carries over to the lunch, which they have on the small kitchen table. Thea has left, but Nadine is there.

“Maybe he’s just lashing out because of his work?” Dalen ponders, smearing some marmalade over her toast. “He looked very out of sorts when I was delivering his lunch.”

Nadine looks at Rémy with an amused expression. “Did he now?”

“Yes, and he yelled at me. Both Madame and Monsieur get frustrated often, but they rarely raise their voices. It’s very worrisome.”

“Maybe he was in a tight spot... or had been?”

Rémy nearly chokes on his food. “Nadine!”

“I’m just saying... one does not need to be a genius to figure out the answer to that particular riddle.”

Here they go again, making Dalen feel like a dumb child... A thin line appears between her brows as she carefully thinks about what happened. She initially assumed that he was mad because of business. The explosion at Kirkwall seems to affect everyone these days; the city has quite a bit of refugees yet again and the Templars are on high alert in case any of them are mages trying to run away. There are a lot more thieves in the city now, too... just the other day, a patrolling guardsman caught a Marcher trying to break into the Duval house. Things have certainly been tense...

“Oh, by the way? Madame wants me to teach you how to help someone get ready.”

Nadine’s voice brings Dalen out of her thoughts. “She told me about it, too.”

“Shit. Was she mad? I was supposed to tell you after breakfast, but Thea needed help and I just...”

“Can you not swear in front of Cerise? She’s far too young to hear such things.”

“Oh please,” Dalen rolls her eyes. “I was a thief, I’ve heard far worse. And no, Madame wasn’t angry.”

“Thank the Maker. I keep getting in trouble and I can’t get fired because of you.”

It wouldn’t exactly be because of her, but she keeps her mouth shut anyway, and enjoys the sweet marmalade instead.

The rest of their lunch break goes quietly until Dalen finally figures out what the Antivan meant by ‘tight spot’ and nearly drowns in a glass of water.

***

“Cerise, it’s time.”

Dalen is helping Madame with the garden as instructed... Madame enjoys taking care of the flowers, but she rarely does anything beyond watering them and picking them to put in the numerous vases around the house. She heard that it was Rémy who assisted her with the weeds before, but now it’s her task to dig into the earth and pull out those unwanted roots.

“Cerise!” repeats Madame, louder this time.

Dalen flinches and lets go of the rake to assume her practiced ‘idle’ position – back straight, hands brought together near the small of her back and one leg cocked to add a flair of elegance, whatever that means.

“Listen to me carefully, girl,” says Madame, clearly frustrated with her slowness. “You are not Dalen anymore. Dalen was a thieving urchin who lived on the streets. You are  _ Cerise _ , an elegant young girl who earns her keep by helping her betters. Are you so proud of who you were before that you can’t let go of those two random syllables you call a name?”

“Ah, no Madame,” she replies, but she’s a moment too slow to assure her, and the woman’s nose wrinkles in that tell-tale way. “I apologize, Madame. It will not happen again.”

Madame sighs and drops her shears into the flowerbed, looking towards the huge batch of roses she’s gathered. “Go to Nadine before I realize what a horrible mistake it’s been to take you in.”

So she runs.

***

She’s distracted by what Madame said throughout the process of preparing Nadine, and Nadine keeps having to snap her fingers at Dalen to bring her back to reality in the servants’ room. She needs her hair and make-up done, and that’s the toughest part of this deal – putting her in a dress isn’t that difficult.

“Make-up is the first to be applied,” Nadine explains, picking out supplies. “There is a lot of powder involved, it gets all over the place. You pour a small bit of it into the lid... with Madame, you can dip the big brush and apply directly, but since I’m considerably darker, I mix the powder with a bit of water to make a paint. Like this...”

“Isn’t that too white for you?”

“It’s too white for anyone, but that’s in fashion. If you have darker skin or a tan, then that means you’re lower class; you’ve worked all day under the sun, and your skin shows it. But if you have pale skin, you’re a delicate flower who spends her days lounging on the sofa instead of being productive.” The woman laughs lightly. “Alright, this is the consistency you’re looking for... until you reach this point, just add little bits of water and mix well.”

She paints the woman’s face, and uses a charcoal stick to frame her beautiful green eyes... then comes the rouge. It’s pink, it smells like roses and it goes on the cheeks... not a lot, just a little bit.

“This is actually a bit too plain for most, but I’m just a servant, so it’s better for me to be plain. You’ll get the hang of it in time, if she wants you to continue learning these things...”

“How did you learn? Did someone teach you?”

“I just learned by watching others,” Nadine shrugs. “It’s easy here, everyone wears makeup. You should keep an eye out when you’re out shopping or picking up orders... look at their face, look at their clothes, that’s how you learn the fashion trends. These things change quite quickly, and adapting is important.”

It’s all a little too intimidating, especially for someone who’s never had to bother with such things. At least it’s easier to do what she’s told. She picks up a thin brush and uses it to stir some water into the rouge, and paints the woman’s lips.

“Is this alright?”

“Yes. See? It’s supposed to look natural, but in an exaggerated sort of way... you’re not that bad at this, I’m a little surprised. I thought you’d make a mess of me!”

Nadine inspects her reflection through the mirror, and Dalen notices herself just standing behind her, brush and lid at hand... She never looked in the mirrors before, since it didn’t matter what she looked like, and it still doesn’t... and yet she knows she looks different. She can sense the tiniest of differences; she knows that her arms and legs are getting thicker with fat and muscle, and her hair feels –and looks– far softer when it’s washed and tamed into that polite little bun...

She enjoys baths now, and takes one every week. Sleeps on a bed, wears shoes, and owns more than one set of clothing. She gets paid – it’s a small amount compared to what the others are paid, but money is money, and she actually earns it. It’s not just her physique that’s changed, it’s her, too... her mood, her outlook on life... Madame was right; she’s clearly not what she was before she accepted her offer, so why is she having such a hard time being Cerise when she’s clearly not Dalen anymore?

“We don’t have much time left,” Nadine tells her, “so I’ll start putting on my clothes. Go and get the irons from the kitchen, they should be cool enough to handle now.”

She looks into the mirror one last time, and makes her decision. Out with the thieving, starving child... in with the capable and responsible servant.

“Maker’s breath, girl,  _ move! _ ”

Cerise moves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before writing, I tend to do a bit of research into the medieval times, but I take liberties to make the historical facts fit this French inspired, fictional city setting. Feel free to get in touch if you feel I got something particularly wrong. 
> 
> Luthor is still fixing my mistakes and helping me with ideas... Merci beaucoup, mon amie :)


	6. Friends

Cerise rarely gets a day off.

Sure, sometimes there’s not much to do, and she gets to spend a few hours here and there doing as she pleases. But days off are much harder to come by, which is why she lets out an excited squeal when Thea grudgingly tells her that she’s free for the day.

“So I can do anything?” she asks the older servant. “Anything I want?”

“As long as you’re not pestering me or getting yourself in trouble, yes.”

“Oh, don’t worry! I have no intention of staying inside any longer than I have to.”

The Duvals left a week ago to visit Madame’s family up at Ghislain. Nadine and Rémy went with them because she’s the lady’s maid and he’s Monsieur’s valet, which means that Cerise had to spend the entire week looking at Thea’s grumpy face. And the older servant is not an easy person to get along with or like.

Cerise can definitely use some time away from her.

Her first order of business is to take a bath. After all, if she is to walk the streets of Val Royeaux wearing a Duval mask, she needs to look the part. Thea is annoyed by her presence in the kitchen, but there’s nothing to be done about it – the weather is far too chilly to dip into cold water, even during the day.

It takes about an hour for her to make herself more presentable, and that includes the time she spends on her hair and face. She can’t paint herself the way she does Nadine, but she curls her hair the way Madame does... regular bathing has been good to her hair; it feels light and soft, and the curls bounce whenever she moves her head. She has some regular clothes on, just a tunic and tights to cover her legs... after putting on her mask, she decides to get her cloak to protect herself from the elements and leaves the house, her pocket full of hard-earned coins.

Walking on the streets is quite different now that she’s not a street child anymore. Before, people used to ignore or sneer at her, but now they see the Duval heraldry on her mask and acknowledge her presence with a nod or even a small smile. Nobles still don’t bother, but that’s to be expected; they’re not going to bother with anyone that’s not worth their time, after all.

As an experiment, she starts to visit the places she’s been to before. As a servant, visiting Belle Marché is a different experience. Merchants don’t grimace or tell her to disappear; they casually greet her and answer questions about their wares. When she enters shops, she’s not immediately kicked out – more distinguished places still don’t approve of her presence but they’re not outright rude to her. She even visits the Chantry and nobody recognizes her; the sisters whom she stayed with for many months don’t give her a second glance, and as long as the Templars are concerned she’s just a random city elf who converted to Andrastrian religion.

Could it be the mask? It’s doesn’t cover her entire face, only reaching towards the tip of her nose... which is beginning to itch quite a bit, because she’s definitely not used to wearing a mask yet. It’s standard for servants to wear masks that are shaped after the charge of their family’s heraldry. In Cerise’s case, her mask has the qualities of a swan; it has a beak over the nose, the edge of the eye holes are painted in black and the sides of the mask are shaped like the tips of a bird wing. It’s actually quite fancy, as far as servant masks go... maybe that’s the reason she’s not recognized. People look at her, see the mask, arrive at a conclusion and don’t bother looking past it.

It makes sense.

Unsure of how to feel about it, Cerise tours the parts of the Chantry that are open to the public, to see what changed and what stayed the same. It’s fairly crowded, so not many people notice her stalk by. She recognizes Sister Lavinia’s soft singing voice coming from the backyard and smiles to herself... this was one of her favorite things to do when she used to live here. She didn’t care for the Chant, but she liked to listen to their singing. Somehow it made her feel more cheerful, despite everything wrong that was going on at the time...

“Do you need assistance, Mademoiselle?”

It’s the first time someone’s addressed her since she entered the Chantry, and it catches her off guard. “No, I was just...” she begins, only for her voice to trail off at the end, because she realizes that the sister who approached her is not just any sister...

“I’m glad to see you,” the redheaded woman tells her with a warm smile. “I did not think you would visit again.”

She recognizes Cerise, because of course she does – this is Sister Leliana, vanquisher of the Blight, the Left Hand of Divine Justinia and clearly not someone Cerise expected to see among all the Royans rushing into the Maker’s house... she gulps down her surprise and opens her mouth, but fails to say something.

“Would you like to speak in private? I would enjoy catching up with you.”

“What would we talk about?” Cerise asks, thinking back on the time she sent Cyril through the grand doors. Is it possible that she’s in trouble despite the years that have passed?

“Come and see.”

Sister Leliana starts to walk, without a single glance towards her... she can still leave, in fact, she should leave, but her curiosity gets the better of her... so, after a moment of quiet deliberation, Cerise follows the woman deeper into the building, far from the crowds that have gathered.

Their destination is not somewhere she’s been before. She hadn’t gone further than the first two floors, but Sister Leliana takes her to the fourth floor. The office they’ve entered is quite warm and cozy but plainly furnished with only the bare necessities.

She assumes that the woman does not receive visitors here, because aside from the chair by her desk, there are no more seats. As Leliana checks on the birds by the window, she simply stands by the door and takes a moment to compose herself... surely there’s no reason to be afraid? It’s not like she knew Cy was showing signs of magic, but if the boy caused an incident, perhaps she thinks that Cerise sent him on purpose...

“Come in,” the woman urges. “I just need to make sure that they’re fed. I was in the middle of it when I saw you enter the building.”

“You recognized me from that distance?” Cerise asks disbelievingly.

“Not entirely. I recognized your mask, and came to a conclusion.” Leliana drops a few more grains into the little tray and leaves the birds to themselves. “I don’t think I’d recognize you without it, you’ve grown so much! Come and sit, alright? There’s no need to be wary. I meant what I said, I just want to talk to you.”

Cerise acquiesces, though she’s not letting go of her guard. It doesn’t help that the chair is so comfortable... she reaches under the mask to itch her nose, then looks at the woman. “What do you want to talk about?”

“For starters, I believe I owe you an apology...” Sister Leliana sighs. “I know that you took off because of what I did that evening. I acted without thought, I simply wanted to put the liar in her place; I didn’t even realize that my actions would make dealing with the likes of Sister Toinette more difficult. The Chantry is meant to be a shelter for those who need it, not a place that takes advantage of people... and certainly not a place to run away from.”

Her apology is quite unexpected, and Cerise doesn’t quite know how to react appropriately, because no one has ever apologized to her before. So she tries to change the subject. “What happened after I left?”

“It took me a few days to find out, as I was still working on settling in, and the majority of the sisters were persuaded to avoid mentioning it.” Her nose wrinkles as she mentions that. “But afterwards, I tried to look for you. When that didn’t work, I spoke to Justinia, who was rightly upset by this turn of events. She was the one who showed me my error, as I’ve been thinking that perhaps you were thrown out.”

“I think it’s a safe assumption,” Cerise shrugs. “If I hadn’t left, perhaps she or someone else would have sent me packing.”

“Justinia was aware of that too, and it didn’t sit well with either of us... It was Lady Cassandra who came up with the idea to change things. We had enough place within the Cathedral to take in those without a home, or those who couldn’t work to support themselves. We allowed a portion of the donations to go towards feeding and outfitting them. Those who wish help around with the chores, but they’re not made to do anything they don’t want to or can’t... their only responsibility is to keep their surroundings tidy, and to help those among them who need help – we house many refugees from Kirkwall, some with severe injuries that can’t be helped by medicine or magic... but we do what we can.”

“But how can you be sure that they’re not mistreated?”

“We keep an eye on them, of course... it’s not like they remain forgotten by the rest. There were some issues in the beginning, but we alleviated the most by only allowing the sisters who volunteer to assist them. I was the one who took care of the finances until recently, but since the events of Kirkwall, I’ve given my duties to another sister who understands the importance of the issue. The Divine herself visits their wing of the Cathedral from time to time, to make sure they’re well taken care of and that things are running as smoothly as possible. We’ve learned whatever we could from what happened to you, and we’re doing all we can.”

Cerise nods. “And what became of Sister Toinette?”

“She still remains within the Cathedral, though The Divine was utterly displeased with her manipulation of the events. She was given orders to not interfere, and so far she’s done what she was told.”

It’s not a satisfying solution, but it’s a solution nonetheless.

“Shortly after the system was put in place, I told my people to find you. That’s how I found out that you were not on the streets anymore; you were taken in by the Duval family. They’re treating you well, I hope?”

“They are,” she replies. “I get enough food and sleep, and I get paid for my work. There are occasional scoldings, but I don’t get beaten or anything like that.”

“I’ll admit that I don’t know much about the Duvals, aside from what the public knows of them. What are they like?”

“Well, Madame is...” Cerise struggles for a moment to find the appropriate description. “Strict, I’d say. She doesn’t like it when things aren’t perfect. But she gives precise explanations, so it’s not hard to get things done to her standards. Nadine says she’s being a bit more patient with me, because I’m still learning, but I wouldn’t know if that’s true.”

“What about her husband?”

“I don’t see him around much. When he’s home, he’s either busy in his study, or busy with... erm...”

“His affair?” Leliana supplies, amused.

“Do people know about that?!”

“I didn’t, but it wouldn’t be far fetched, especially in Val Royeaux. His wife probably knows, too, and possibly carries out her own affairs.”

That’s a relief... Cerise has enough common sense to keep her mouth shut, but it always felt wrong not to mention the elephant in the room. She’s about to say more, but she’s interrupted by the sound of flapping wings. The bird hovering outside catches Leliana’s attention, and the woman hops down from the desk to retrieve a piece of paper tied to its flimsy leg.

“Interesting,” she mumbles to herself as she reads the note. “She’s found one of them, after all.”

“Found who?”

“I’m not sure yet, but if it’s who I think it is, the Kirkwall situation might be solved sooner than we thought. It appears I’ll be road-bound tomorrow morning... as if I haven’t done enough travelling in my life.” She laughs a quick, but pleasant laugh. “It’s been great to catch up with you, Dalen, but I must start to prepare.”

“It’s Cerise now, actually.”

“Oh?”

“Madame says it sounds prettier.” Cerise reaches under her mask once more, eager to get all the scratching done before going out. “I like it, too.”

“Cerise it is, then,” the woman nods. “I don’t know when I’ll be back, but I’d love for us to talk some more. Is there a way for us to keep in contact?”

“I’m not sure, I don’t get many days off... but you write, don’t you? I’m not good at reading yet, but I can read some.”

“It should be easy to have someone deliver a message for you, then. Shall I walk you out?”

“No need, Sister Leliana. I’m sure you have a lot of things to do. I’ll find my way back.”

Still, she pauses just by the door, and briefly turns around to ask one final question, one that’s been itching at her head since she stepped through the gates of the Cathedral: “Have you ever seen a young boy among the homeless? Marcher with light blond hair, called Alec?”

“No,” says Leliana. “No, I’m sure we never had anyone by that name. Why do you ask? Who is he?”

“No one, just... just someone I knew. Good day, Sister.”

Giving up on the rest of her day off, Cerise returns home a disappointed mess and spends the rest of the day deep in thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't even know if anyone is following this, but... here's another chapter. Whoever you are, I hope you're enjoying it.


	7. New Friends

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I didn't think anyone outside of my immediate friends was reading this. It turns out that there's at least one person! Thanks, Leasalla, for bringing this back from the depths I was ready to shove it in. I even made it twice as long as my usual chapters. Hope you'll enjoy. 
> 
> Also, I have a new beta! N7Krogan is a fellow Bioware fan and a writer, and she's spent a whopping 7 hours fixing my grammar and giving me writing style advice. (I feel like I could write 'thank you' for seven hours straight and it still wouldn't be thanks enough!) She's not on Ao3 yet, but you can find her on FFN.net/~n7krogan

The tall, well-dressed man is cruising the streets of Val Royeaux without a single care in the world.

It’s not the most interesting activity for a day off, but Cerise wants to make sure of all the facts and if that means she has to sacrifice a few hours of her precious freedom, so be it. So far it’s been quite eventless, he’s only had a quick meeting with a captain. Her contact has told her that Batonverte imports fabrics from Antiva and sells them to local designers, so he must be a business contact.

So far he hasn’t been particularly nasty to anyone, and Cerise worries that this might be an actual waste of time… but she still follows him through the streets and eventually he enters into a boutique. She briefly lingers outside, then follows him in.

“Thank you for gracing us with your presence, Lord Batonverte. I’m afraid Monsieur has stepped out to assist a customer’s fitting, but please allow me the pleasure of assisting you with whatever you may need.”

The woman is trying hard to be oh so polite, and yet Batonverte is displeased.

“I came to inform Monsieur Martell that the vessel we were expecting has encountered some problems on its way,” he says. “The final pricing is going to be slightly higher than estimated.”

“Higher? But that causes many problems for Monsieur Martell! We’ve received many orders that contain Nevarran silk, calculated our fee based on the estimates you’ve given us and some of our clients even paid ahead-”

“I realize the inconvenience, but there is nothing I can do about this, as the final price is determined by the ship captain and the captain has spoken. I even put it in contract – additional payment may be required depending on weather conditions. Monsieur Martell seemed fine with the notion, at least I assume so, why else would he put his signature under it?”

Batonverte is acting as if all of this is a simple misunderstanding, while the tailor’s assistant looks like she’s about to burst into tears. Cerise on the other hand is thankful to be wearing a mask, because now that she knows the context, she can make sense of what Batonverte said at the end of his earlier meeting and it’s very hard not to frown. He was offering a bribe to the captain if he went along with ‘their old trick’. Granted, the tailor must have been out of his head to sign a contract without reading the fine print, but it does not excuse Batonverte’s scam.

So this was not pointless after all; her contact was right and the situation clearly warrants intervention.

“I apologize for the wait, Mademoiselle, how may I help you?”

Batonverte has left, it seems, and the assistant is looking at Cerise, still a bit tearful.

“Oh, I’m afraid not. I was supposed to pick up an order for my Madame, but silly me, this isn’t the right place at all! Hot weather must have addled my brain, so sorry to bother you dear.”

Cerise gives the woman a warm, apologetic smile, then leaves the boutique and begins to think about how to proceed with the task at hand as she makes her way back to the Duval house.

***

It all started when Madame told her to go out and buy Lotus Kiss – the woman had heard that this cream worked wonders for the complexion and she did not want to miss out on the new fad. Cerise was not excited at the prospect of visiting the apothecary, as the owner was a mean one, so she left this task to the end of her shopping trip, only to be surprised by a familiar face sitting behind the counter.

Harea had been a big help during that long, painful period of time Cerise spent on the streets; she gave her easy jobs and paid with a coin or two, food or even herbs she managed to scrounge up, though the two hadn’t kept in touch after Cerise was taken in by the Duvals.

While Cerise was busy learning the art of servitude, Harea had been mastering her art. The shop was fully stocked; various plant samples were hanging from the walls or decorating the room in beautiful glass vases. The shelves were full of jars containing all sorts of make-up powders, facial creams, body creams, and ointments for any blemish that dared to mar the Royans’ beautiful complexions.

 “How did you manage all this?” Cerise asked as she accepted a cup of beautifully scented tea. “You were complaining that he was mistreating you and using the results of your hard work without giving you any praise or money. How did you get to have his shop?”

“You know me dear, I haven’t done anything.” Harea’s eyes twinkled mischievously. “Poor thing got drunk on one of his concoctions and ended up insulting a chevalier...but the customers kept coming, and someone had to help the good folk of Val Royeaux, right?”

The edges of Cerise's lips curled into a knowing smile. “And what really happened?”

“I may or may not have a couple of friends who may or may not have added a few things into his wine that may or may not have caused some adverse effects. I’ll admit to nothing.”

Harea said nothing else, though Cerise had the impression that the woman was behaving oddly; it wasn’t anything alarming, it was just the way she looked at Cerise. There was something about it that made her want to pay extra attention but she wasn't sure what she should look for.

“Oh, before I forget, I actually came here to buy something. Madame has asked me to purchase a jar of Lotus Kiss, whatever that might be.”

“It’s a face mask to keep your skin young and fresh,” replied Harea. “There, you can have my last jar. I’ll have to make a new batch this weekend.”

“Really, they’re that popular?”

“They’ve been selling like frilly cakes, dear. The fact that they’re alarming only makes them even more desirable.”

“How alarming exactly?”

“Well…without giving away my secrets, I’ll tell you that the bulk of the thing is made with dawn lotus but what makes it work is the small amount of rashvine extract I add into it. It causes a bloody rash that takes a few days to heal, but once it does, your skin ends up being blemish free, smooth like porcelain and soft as a baby’s bottom.”

“I thought rashvine was dangerous,” Cerise frowned, imagining Madame’s face covered in such rash – she would make life hell for them, no doubt.

“That’s why I use a tiny bit of it. Just enough to irritate the skin but not enough to get into the blood. The dilution process is far too complicated to explain, but I guarantee you that it works – hell, I made this batch last weekend and I’m already out because Batonverte stopped by this morning and bought not one, not two, but _three_ full jars of it. You’ve heard of him, right?”

Indeed, Cerise has heard of Lord Batonverte – he was never invited to Madame’s parties, but she’d heard of other guests discussing him. Batonverte came to Val Royeaux a few months ago from some village or another, and was one of the richest people of Val Royeaux already, though possessed not an ounce of class or tact.

“I heard that he was a bit of a joke,” Cerise replied.

“He started out as one but it turns out that the man has a mean streak. Have you heard of what he did at Café Plume?”

“Not really, no.”

“Well, a friend of mine was a waiter there. Loved the job; it’s a good place to relax, and people tip quite well after filling their bellies with sweet, sweet pastry. I know from experience; their éclairs are divine. But anyway, a few days ago Batonverte visited the place, turned up his nose at every single thing on the menu, and then ordered a cup of tea. Don’t you hate it when someone visits a place famous for its baked goods and orders just tea?”

“I guess?”

“Anyway, my friend brought him his Maker damned tea, but Batonverte kept insisting that the tea was cold. My friend swears up and down that he poured the tea and went straight to his table, but apparently Batonverte thinks if something isn’t boiling hot, it’s cold. What a nightmare! They exchanged some words, people began to stare and finally my friend couldn’t hold his tongue anymore. He told Batonverte that the tea was fine, its temperature was what it was meant to be and they’ve never received any complaints about it before.”

“I take it this Batonverte did not take kindly to backtalk.”

“He threw his cup on the floor and told my friend, if it’s such a fine tea, lick it from the floor.”

Nobles being rude to commoners wasn’t a rare occurrence, but this was a particular brand of nasty. “What happened then?”

“He refused, then the owner got involved and I guess he owed Batonverte some money, or perhaps thought the man was more important than he thought. My friend got fired, and the incident got spread in favor of Batonverte, so my friend can’t even find a job anymore – everyone just balks at the sight of him. All because Batonverte just wanted to boss somebody around. Infuriating, right?”

“And yet unsurprising.” The tale has left a bad taste in Cerise’s mouth. “This is Val Royeaux, the rich always reign, noble or otherwise.”

“If only someone could bring him down a peg and humiliate him the way he humiliated my friend. Wouldn’t that be fair?”

Harea had that odd look about her again, and suddenly Cerise got it – all the staring, all those hints. She was intending to bring this up all along. Since Harea was one of her oldest contacts, Cerise had expected that the woman would simply come out and say whatever she wanted, not… dance around like this.

“Suppose you could hire a bard or something,” she shrugged. “Though from what I hear, they don’t come cheap.”

“How much were you thinking? I don’t want him dead or anything, surely it can’t be that much…”

“It’s still dangerous though, is it not? One would have to know her way around people like that, would have to have enough skill to avoid being obvious… not to mention having to possess enough intelligence and creativity to pull it off without leaving a trace towards the real person responsible. Fifty royals, maybe more?”

“Fifty?!” Harea’s eyes nearly left their sockets. “Maker’s breath, girl! Sure, I want to see him get his comeuppance, but I don’t want to lose my shop for it.”

“I might be wrong, it’s not as if I go around hiring bards all the time. You could ask around, maybe? I’m sure you can find someone cheaper… might have to look hard though, I doubt anyone would risk their necks for even half that.”

It felt a bit silly to play this game, like mice pretending to be people – mice were mice and no amount of posturing would make them people. She supposed that Harea actually needed all this, now that she was a proper citizen with a decent income and a shop. Cerise didn’t, but she refused to be the one to stop playing. She sipped the tea and leaned further into the comfortable chair, letting the silence drag on.

“Well,” Harea sighed, then. “I suppose there’s no point in continuing this charade, is there?”

“There never was.” Cerise turned to face her once more. “You’ve paid me to do things before, what in Maker’s name made you think that you needed to play me?”

“Well, you’re… you’re wearing shoes.”

Cerise leaned forward to look at her feet. She wasn’t wearing anything special; the details carved into the low heels made the shoes just stylish enough to pass on the streets, but the leather soles have taken the shape of her feet, making these shoes marvelously comfortable for quick shopping trips.

“Yes, I’m wearing shoes. What of it?”

“Shoes! You used to flop those bare feet of yours all around the city and now you’re wearing shoes. You have a mask. You’ve never looked so Orlesian. Can you blame me for wanting to see if you still were smart enough to catch onto bullshit?”

“I’m still me, gods damn it. I might not be on the streets anymore, but I remember all the lessons I’ve learned.”

Harea nodded. “Indeed. And you’ve used your experiences to move up to a comfortable height. I’m confident that you could take on this job.”

“Except, I haven’t said that I would. I don’t even know what you want.”

“I want Batonverte fucked up.” Warmth left Harea’s voice as her expression hardened. “I want his reputation in tatters. I want everyone to see him as the joke we know he is. How you get him into that position is up to you. This is the job.”

“And what are you willing to pay?” Cerise asked. It’s not the coin that’s important, it’s the principle. She would not sell herself short, not even for a friend.

 “I’m willing to negotiate, but I’ve got something shinier in mind for you. If you keep both of us out of trouble, that is.”

“And what is that?”

“Oh, nothing huge… only the strongest and most capable contact I’ve ever made.”

Cerise was intrigued, because most of her contacts were like herself: handful of servants here, a shopkeeper or two there… refugees made good friends too, but they were neither strong nor capable. “Tell me more?” she urged.

“Not yet. Like I said, it depends on how you handle the job. But I can promise you that it’s worth it… I wouldn’t lie, would I?”

Cerise doubted that the woman had a reason to lie to her. “Fine then,” she relented. “Keep your shiny to your chest a while longer. I still expect a proper payment, though.”

What followed was a long haggling session. Both of them were quite capable in that aspect; Harea ran a tight shop and she knew how to be fierce, but as someone who grew up on the streets, Cerise knew what her skills were truly worth and thanks to her proximity to Madame and her friends, she was able to recognize when someone was bluffing.

Eventually, they came to a mutually satisfying agreement, and half of it quickly changed hands.

“Visit whenever you can,” Harea said in the middle of a quick hug. “I don’t give anything for free, but I might spring for a treatment or two – you’ll feel like a queen, believe me.”

If rashvine made one feel like a queen, she’d rather feel like a servant. But Harea didn’t need to know that.

“I’ll see what I can do.”

***

Since there’s no need to rush, Cerise takes her time investigating Batonverte.

Many of her contacts have either stopped being useful or moved onto greener pastures, but as a servant she’s managed to make some new contacts as well – a couple of shopkeepers here, some servants belonging the other houses there – and information is ripe for the picking, for those who know how to use it.

After stopping by her past haunts, gossiping with other servants during gatherings and even following around Batonverte’s servants, Cerise finds out that the man is attempting to ingratiate himself with one Baron Mercier. He’s even throwing a party in his honor, no doubt trying to use him to extend his own social circle. The date for this party is closer than Cerise would like, but the extra challenge should make this interesting.

She’s also lucky that Madame is now using the Lotus Kiss treatment. The woman ordered them to cover all mirrors, as she did not want to be shocked by the sight of it, and she’s also been consuming large amounts of wine as she’s heard that the ointment can be painful for some. It makes things convenient for Cerise, as Madame tends to call for Nadine when she’s at home, and she can take a few days off to sort this problem.

Her first stop is the wine merchant’s office. It also works as a test of sorts.

“Good evening, mademoiselle! How may I help you?”

“Evening. I’m here on behalf of Lord Batonverte,” Cerise replies quickly, not knowing whether her mask will hold up to study. It is not an exact duplicate for the masks Batonverte’s servants wear, but it is close enough, at least she hopes it is. It annoyed her to no end that Batonverte is shamelessly imitating all others; it’s not as if the man has a heraldry to match the masks to, he simply ordered plain porcelain masks with some gems scattered about.

“Ah, yes. Lord Batonverte is one of our most esteemed customers. Was there something wrong with his order?”

The fake mask works, then. Good to know.

“Yes, actually. It needs to be changed, as it turns out one of the newer servants ordered the wrong kind of wine – Fereldans are so scatterbrained, aren’t they? I’m just glad that we noticed her mistake before the party.”

“You were indeed lucky, mademoiselle. Do give me a moment to bring out the books.”

It’s going well so far… Cerise has no idea what the man’s original order is, but she’s learned quite a bit about the local wine preference and it should be easy to pick out an unpopular one. Obviously this won’t be enough to affect anyone’s opinion, it’s just wine, but if she can slowly pick at the man’s confidence with more tricks such as this, there’s a good chance that he’ll have a breakdown and do the rest of the work himself.

The clerk returns with a heavy looking book, opens up the right page and Cerise reads that Batonverte is expecting a large amount of Rousseau Red. Having met Mercier at one of Madame’s parties, Cerise knows that he quite enjoys this one.

“Fereldans,” Cerise scoffs yet again at seemingly nobody, then speaks up. “We’ll be changing this to Perivantium – please tell me you have the appropriate amount in stock, otherwise Lord Batonverte will have the poor woman’s hide for the mistake.”

“We do have Perivantium,” the clerk frowns. “Quite a bit of it, in fact. Are you certain? Tevinter wines are-”

“Lord Batonverte’s absolute favorite. Yes, we must have Perivantium, please and thank you.” (Smooth!)

The clerk must know that wines that are made in Tevinter have been quite unpopular ever since it got out that slaves were involved in the making, although it couldn’t have been that big of a secret – what did they think, that the Magisters themselves bothered to smash the grapes? Faced with Cerise’s determination, the clerk can do nothing but scribble the old wine and put down Perivantium in its stead, he then enters the new amount by it, to Cerise’s surprise, reaches under the table to bring out some coins.

“We had received the funds in advance,” he says, counting the appropriate amount. “Here is your new change. Please send our regards to Lord Batonverte.”

Cerise looks at the amount of coin and thinks to herself, who doesn’t love unexpected side benefits? She gingerly places the royals into her coin purse, doing her best to downplay the fact that she just tripled her pocket money and thanks the man again, going on about how happy Lord Batonverte will be to have his absolute favorite wine.

After leaving the store, she visits a nearby café and treats herself to a large platter of frilly cakes for a job well begun.

***

A few days pass as Cerise keeps chipping away at Batonverte’s party. The man goes through servants like underwear, hiring new ones even before firing the old ones, so nobody even suspects that Cerise is not an employee of his. He himself once gets confused when he runs into her near his house, and after one look at her mask, tells her to stop slacking off and go back in.

It’s quite lucky and unnerving at the same time, because while it’s possible to alter a few things on the inside, Cerise is also unable to make her exit without anyone noticing. She decides to go through Batonverte’s chambers, hoping to find something to do or some secret she might be able to use for her purposes. It’s tough to proceed through the house whilst avoiding the actual servants but she knows that the key is acting confident and even partially obnoxious. She yells at a young girl to go and check on dinner, commands another to polish the silver until the nobles can use their spoons for mirrors, and then slips into the man’s room.

It turns out to be a waste of time…for the most part. There are no juicy secrets to be used no matter where she looks – it appears that Batonverte hasn’t been in the city long enough to have those. However, she comes across a rather elaborate looking mask; surely he’s intending to wear this to the party, otherwise it would be on his face, not in his wardrobe.

It would be rather obvious to break the mask, not to mention dangerous, now that she’s inside the man’s house. She finds some much needed inspiration further inside his wardrobe, in an unassuming little drawer.

An unopened jar of Lotus Kiss. She sits down on the ground, places the mask on her lap and begins to rub in a touch of the face mask with the help of her handkerchief – it will have to be thrown away after this, but it’s better that the harm comes to the handkerchief and not her soft, well-manicured hands. That would be quite difficult to explain.

***

The party is in three days, and now that it’s so soon, it feels like time is passing much more quickly. Cerise needs a master stroke – sure, bad wine and bad rash are bound to make people talk, but there has to be something bigger, something that would guarantee his status in the city revoked.

In the meantime, Madame’s Lotus Kiss treatment continues, along with various other treatments that are less violent and more of a routine – hair removal, body care, things like that. On this particular evening, Madame has asked for a pedicure and it’s surprisingly enjoyable for Cerise. The foot bath smells lovely and has the side effect of softening her hands as she massages Madame’s feet.

“How does my face look?” asks Madame, enjoying a glass of Rousseau. “Do you think the rash is getting better?”

“I would think so, Madame. They certainly look less raw.”

“I hope so. It’s been quite a while since we began the treatment and I find myself getting impatient, not to mention eager to leave the house.”

“Are you certain you don’t want to go out to the garden? Perhaps taking care of your flowers might alleviate your mood.”

“Oh, it would. But I’d rather not risk being seen like this. Can you imagine what Aveline Renaud would say?”

Madame has complained about Aveline Renaud on occasion, so Cerise knows the story. Shortly after the Duvals came to Val Royeaux, they got in a bit of a kerfuffle with the Renaud family over property rights; Lady Aveline insisted that the blueprints for the recently purchased Duval house had included a bit of their backyard and apparently acted quite rude over the issue. The matter was brought to court, which forced the two families to compromise – the Renaud family got to keep the portion of property in question, but they also had to pay the Duvals a considerable sum since they had bought the house thinking it had a larger garden space. This was of course many years ago, but the enmity continues to this day – Madame insists that they should have been allowed to keep the land, Lady Aveline insist that they should not have been forced to pay and neither side is willing to admit to any fault. They ran into each other at a party a few weeks ago and it was nothing short of horrendous.

Cerise pauses cutting away at Madame’s cuticles and goes still. This sort of thing is exactly what she needs to ruin Batonverte’s party. He has angered quite a few people with his antics, but Cerise doubts any of those people would attend a gathering at his house. The party is for Baron Mercier, however and if he thinks Batonverte has invited someone he doesn’t like on purpose, that would surely put a spinner in the works.

“What’s wrong?” Madame suddenly sits up to inspect her toes. “You haven’t made them uneven, have you?

“Erm, no Madame. I was just…woolgathering.”

“Do that on your own time, my dear – right now my toes need to be beautiful and it’s your job to make them so.”

“Yes, Madame.”

***

While the idea is fine, the execution is…terrifying.

Cerise leaves the house in the mid-afternoon and finds a quiet spot to wear her disguise – just a fancy cloak to mask her outfit and the mask she’s been using to pose as Batonverte’s servant. She’s never met whom she was told is Mercier’s rival, but she has heard of her before, as Madame Perrault isn’t the nicest noble a servant could run into and she’s made quite an impression to those who have had the misfortune to meet her.

The woman lives on the other side of Belle Marché, so it’s a bit of a walk, and then Cerise has to sit by and wait. She could indeed knock her door and hand the fake invitation to a servant, but that would not guarantee her appearance at the party. The current plan is to wait around until Perrault leaves her house, approach and invite her to the party, exaggerate her importance to Batonverte and hopefully, she’ll be flattered enough to grace the man’s house with her presence.

The party is in two days now, and Cerise can’t wait for the damn thing to be over and done with. The prized contact Harea has told her about should be worth enough to warrant all her secrecy, and in Val Royeaux, the more contacts you have, the easier life becomes. It’s been quite rough before this past week. Working for Madame is one thing but she also has to deal with Nadine on a daily basis, as the Antivan is still keeping a grudge and doing her best to make Cerise look bad. Cerise has not retaliated, mainly because she hasn’t had a good opportunity to do so, but also it’s just a little more satisfying to be more righteous about all her slandering.

She hasn’t been all too obvious about it, of course, but these things do not escape Madame’s gaze. She must be aware of it; she’s extremely observant when it comes to her gossip, surely she won’t miss the things that happen under her roof. However, she has not brought the matter up, nor has she discouraged Nadine from doing what she’s been doing, so one would have to assume that she has an interest in the matter – either she wants to see how Cerise handles herself under all the pressure, or she’s simply amused by their bickering. Either way, Cerise would love to have a backup plan, in case Nadine catches something good one of these days and indeed gets her fired. That’s why she was interested in doing this job for Harea.

It takes her a couple of hours, but finally Madame Perrault leaves the house, in a beautiful green dress and a large sunhat. She shows so little skin that Cerise thinks perhaps she’s intending to spend time outdoors; most nobles prefer not to get sunburn, as it gives the impression that they’ve been working. Oh dear, is she leaving for vacation? There are no horses or carts in sight, so hopefully not.

“Madame Perrault!” she calls out, quickly walking up to her. “May I please have a moment of your time?”

The woman briefly pauses, and once she realizes that Cerise is not someone she knows, sneers at her. “Who are you?”

“I work for Lord Batonverte, and I was told to personally invite you to his party on the weekend.”

“The weekend?”

Clearly she’s insulted at the notion of not being given enough time to decide – not that she would have to think long and hard, but generally people are invited days, sometimes even weeks in advance and if someone’s being invited to an event just a couple of days before the event itself, that means they were either a last minute decision or someone made a mistake and forgot them. Both of these things would be considered rude, but Cerise knows how to fix this. She begins to speak hurriedly, in almost a panicked tone.

“I realize that it’s quite out of the norm, and I apologize for the inconvenience. The truth of the matter is, and I promise not to bore you with useless details as you must be very busy on this fine afternoon – one of the servants lost your invitation and, fearing Lord Batonverte’s anger, decided not to mention anything. She was promptly fired once I revealed her mistake, but when Lord Batonverte realized that you did not receive his invitation, he was utterly distraught. You are one of the handful of guests that he was most excited about – many are invited but of course, not everyone is equally important and, might I say, as fashionable as yourself – and he would be inconsolable if you held this mistake against him. Thus I was sent to deliver his invitation and apology in person.”

Madame Perrault does not look entirely convinced, but picks up the invitation and Cerise bows, in a way that she was taught never to do. Her Madame told her many times to bend from the knee and not from the waist, as that is what peasants often did – but then, the woman seems to be the type that would respond better to extreme submissiveness and not her usual polite style of doing things. She hangs so low that the tips of her hair graze the floor, and she stays like that for a few seconds before straightening up.

Madame Perrault is looking at the invitation. Her mask obscures the majority of her face, though her lips are in clear view and they’re pursed… so she must be considering it.

“I’m not sure if I’ll have time,” she replies eventually. “I already have a few things on Saturday, but if I’m not tired...I make no promises.”

“I understand, Madame. Once more, my apologies for our mistake. Have a nice evening.”

Cerise bows a few more times for good measure before leaving the woman’s side. She feels as though it went well, but sadly, there’s no way to be certain.

She ditches the mask in an alley near Belle Marché, puts on her own, and continues to walk.

***

The party comes and goes, with Cerise at home and secretly obsessing over it.

Since she’s been out and about while taking care of business, she stays home for a few days, taking care of Madame’s garden and making sure Nadine doesn’t have anything that could be remotely connected to her recent exploits. The yardwork has been neglected in favor of Madame’s treatment and various needs, so it takes her an entire day to weed the plants and make sure they’re in good shape.

Madame’s face has healed not enough to resume social activities, but enough to leave the room, and she has breakfast with Monsieur out in the garden. Thea and Nadine have been working hard during the past week, so Cerise takes them their meal, then returns to join the rest for a quick bite.

“Madame’s rashes are very close to disappearing completely,” comments Rémy – he hasn’t sit down in case the Duvals call out, but he joins the conversation from his spot near the kitchen door. “I suppose that ends your lucky streak, Cerise?”

“Unfortunately. I must say, I enjoyed catching up with my old friends – alas, all good things must come to an end!”

“Good things would have to begin first, to come to an end.”

“Do not sulk, Nadine – I already told you, once Madame starts going out, you’ll have a good week of rest. And I am willing to help Thea with meals and cleaning whenever I’m not accompanying Madame.”

“I doubt you’ll have time. I heard Madame fully intends to make up for the lost time; she’s already received quite a few invitations, not to mention the new play everyone’s been talking about. Massacre of Kirkwall, was it?”

“Something like that,” Cerise nods.

“Right. And you know how her schedule gets busier whenever a sensational play comes out – they have to go see it first, then of course they will have to meet the actors, then they’ll gather around to discuss and dissect each and every line, not to mention all the implications.”

“Isn’t the Chantry explosion old news by now? There must be newer, more interesting rumors…”

“There’s yesterday’s party,” says Rémy.

Cerise does her best to appear as nonchalant as possible. Luckily, she’s not the only one out of the loop. “What party?” Nadine asks. “I haven’t heard anything.”

“I heard when I went out early in the morning, Monsieur has asked me to buy some fresh fruits for the breakfast. You’ve heard of Lord Batonverte, right? Yay high, wears obnoxious hats, bought the old house by the Miroir?... No, nothing?”

“I’ve been cooped up inside for far too long!” Nadine chugs the remainder of her water and slams the cup onto the table in anger. “Who is this Batonverte and what happened at his party?”

“I don’t know all the details,” he begins, but just then Cerise hears Monsieur’s voice. “I should probably go…”

“You’re staying, boy! I have _got_ to hear this. Cerise, go.”

“What-”

“I’ve been working harder than ever for the past week, Rémy had to wake up by sunrise to buy their groceries and Thea prepared their breakfast. It’s your turn – if you still deign to such work, that is!”

Fair’s fair – Cerise grits her teeth, but stands up anyway to see what the Duvals want. Apparently it’s not enough for them to sit at the garden, Madame has to have fresh flowers on the table as well. It’s an easy, but slightly time consuming task, and by the time she returns to the kitchen Nadine is asking about some other noble.

Cerise normally considers herself to be a calm and poised person, but at that moment it’s difficult to refrain from throttling the woman.

She finds out about the rumor in the afternoon instead, when she’s told to get more Lotus Kiss, because Madame has decided to repeat the treatment in two months’ time and does not want to risk not being able to find any of this miracle treatment. So Cerise puts her mask on and throws herself onto the streets.

She arrives just when Harea is extolling the virtues of her Lotus Kiss to another customer. The man doesn’t seem all that interesting, he actually appears rather concerned at the prospect of harming his face to make it look younger, but once he hears that Madame Duval has sent for another jar, he purchases one as well.

“I should definitely make larger batches from now on,” sighs Harea, watching the man leave. Then she turns to Cerise. “I should have known you’d deliver.”

“You’ve heard of the party, then?” Knowing that she succeeded, Cerise is even more excited. “Tell me more? I was told that it went very poorly, but I haven’t heard how or why.”

“I’ve been following rumors about him quite intently, so I heard pretty much right after it all happen.”

It started with the wine. His delivery arrived a few hours before the party, and he just about lost his temper when he saw the bottles. The merchant refused to change the wines as they’d already done so before, and even if he wished to change, they did not have enough bottles at hand. So Batonverte was stuck with the slave wine.

When the guests began to arrive, they found Batonverte irritated to no end; he apparently had a hard time following conversations, and he kept itching under his mask. Seeing that and the bad wine, the guests came to the conclusion that perhaps he wasn’t as rich as he was made out to be – after all, masks and wine are a staple part of the community, and if one cannot afford decent quality of both, one clearly does not belong to that community.

Baron Mercier’s arrival seemed to help the party slightly; the guests were more inclined to stay, as he is a well liked man and most people would cherish the opportunity to converse with him. For the next hour, all was as well as it could be despite all the minor hiccups but then Madame Perrault arrived. She, of course, had no idea that Mercier would be there, and was thoroughly insulted by his presence. She had a choice of words for both men, words she uttered quite publicly, leading to a short, but loud argument that ended with Batonverte accusing her of forging an invite just to be able to attend what he called ‘the party that will be the talk for months’. Guests found the claim quite funny, and most of them were already looking for an excuse to write off the man, so the majority sided against him. Infuriated even further, Batonverte kept shouting, itching under the mask and generally making a fool out of himself, and then he finally lost it and threw his mask to the ground, much to everyone’s horror – the areas of his face that was covered with the mask was quite red and swollen.

So people will most certainly be talking about this for months,” Harea says giddily. “But not in the way he was hoping for. My friend was ecstatic, and he asked me to give you a portion of his –admittedly small– savings. I doubled the amount, because I definitely wanted to see Batonverte get his comeuppance.”

There’s just a couple of coins more than what they initially agreed to. Cerise happily pockets the money.

“How about the other part of our deal?” she asks. “The part that had to do with the strongest, most capable contact you’ve ever made?”

Harea smirks. “Curious, are we?”

“Damn right. Do tell – who is this person and how can I get in touch?”

“It’s not a person. I mean, it’s not just one person. Cerise dear, what do you know about Friends of the Red Jenny?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Amusing anecdote 1: Batonverte means 'green stick' in French. I've wanted to use it in this fic ever since I heard it on a TV show. 
> 
> Amusing anecdote 2: After writing the paragraph about Cerise wearing shoes, I had to take a break because my brain wouldn't stop playing LiamKyleSullivan's Shoes.
> 
> And now I go back to trying to come up with interesting plot, interesting characters and just being anxious in general.


	8. Adieu, Madame

“I’m sorry.”

Cerise slows down upon hearing Rémy, but does not stop. She doubts he has more to say. She wasn’t expecting any parting words at all, so in her mind, she’s already ahead. Best quit as soon as possible then, lest she makes a fool of herself by crying.

Oh, no. She’s not going to give Nadine the satisfaction.

It was far easier to leave when all she had was small enough to fit in her pockets. This time, she has belongings. Clothes, shoes, the occasional jewelry; the make-up supplies will have to remain as they’re technically not hers, and the same goes for all the other beauty supplies that she used to keep herself presentable.

She should never have gotten so confident, so… complacent. The job that introduced Cerise to the Red Jennies went so smoothly and that she let it get into her head. How could she have been so stupid? For the first few months, it was nice. Sure, she was slightly disappointed that the ‘strongest, most capable contact’ turned out to be just a bunch of people like herself loosely organized under a single, nonsensical name (who in Maker’s name was Jenny and why did she have so many friends?) but once she got past it, she was able to see its usefulness.

In hindsight, she should have paid more attention to Nadine. Underestimating the Antivan did not help her case. She doesn’t even know what the woman had on her; she returned from a trip to the tailor a couple of hours ago and was promptly summoned to the gardens where Madame fired her. There were no explanations, not even a facial expression to base some ideas on.

“I knew it would end like this.”

She turns around to see Thea standing by the door, watching her. She says nothing.

“I told Madame the day I caught your hand in my basket, I said to her that you would just be a waste of time and effort. She didn’t listen. They never do.”

“You think you’re so smart!” Finally free to speak her mind, Cerise let her tongue loose. “You wanted to be right so badly that it didn’t even occur to you that Nadine could be lying, did it? I doubt it. I doubt you have many things to be satisfied about, so when someone gave you an excuse, you just jumped onto it without a second thought.”

Much to her surprise, Thea smirks.

“You don’t even know why you’re fired, do you? That’s why you’ve never denied it. You’re wondering that, out of all the things you’ve done, which one Nadine caught the wind of.”

All the clothes are safely inside. Cerise closes the suitcase and pulls on the latches on either side, locking it.

“I could tell you, if you want.”

Thea is blocking the doorway, waiting for an answer and for the second time, Cerise feels her blood reach boiling point.

“I haven’t asked, because I don’t care what that twice damned fool told you about me, and if you were stupid enough to believe it, that’s not my problem. Now get out of my face, you bitter old cunt!”

The corner of the suitcase digs into her ribs as she pushes past and Thea lets out a painful hiss, finally stepping aside. Seconds later, Cerise leaves the Duval house without a single look back, her head held high.

***

Cerise wonders when Harea’s kindness will finally run out. Not only she offered a place to stay, but she refused to take money, saying that Cerise has helped her out so many times that she can afford to be kind for free just this once.

It seemed like a good idea, but having never been up there, Cerise had no idea what she was getting into. And now, she can’t wait to get out. The garret above the shop is filled to the brim with supplies, and then there’s the various smells she has to contend with, because there’s always something cooking or drying above the fireplace. And when the shop is closed, Harea is up here, chopping things and grinding things and being way too secretive about her recipe books, which Cerise couldn’t care less about.

Sometimes she can’t help but compare the place to the Duval house; sure, Thea was grouchy and Nadine was always on the lookout for the tiniest of mistakes… but at least it didn’t stink of herbs there.

On the morning of her second week in the garret, she wakes up to a new kind of smell. There’s what looks to be a wicked looking, thorny plant stewing in a large pot. It smells as though a corpse was eaten and defecated twice. Cerise doesn’t even bother washing up; she changes out of her nightgown and races downstairs.

“What in Maker’s name is that!?” she croaks at Harea. “I would have preferred a dagger to the gut than death by stench!”

“Don’t be so melodramatic. It’s just an experiment, I’m trying to see if I can use Felandaris as a numbing agent but it needs to be diluted first. Do you want some tea?”

“The sun is not even up yet!”

“I like to get a head start on my day off. Why wait when you can just do what needs to be done – you didn’t wash your face, did you? I used the water in the basin to clean some Witherstalk. It’s won’t hurt you or anything, but it might give you the giggles.” 

Cerise takes a moment to calm herself down, and to remind herself that Harea is a good friend and she cannot thank her for letting her stay for free by murdering her.

“I’ll go out and check if any Friends came through,” she says. “I just need a half hour to get ready. Can you please remove that… experiment from the fire until I’m gone?”

“How about I get you that cup of tea with some fresh bread and marmalade? It only needs fifteen more minutes.” Harea gestures towards her marked candle. “I’ll go and open the window, the smell should be gone by then.”

It’s as good a compromise as any. Cerise takes a seat, Harea puts her recipe book aside and the two of them share a modest breakfast.

“I don’t mind you being here,” Harea mumbles, chewing on a bite of generously buttered toast. “But work comes first, surely you understand.”

“I do.” Cerise really does. It would be unfair to expect Harea to slow things down, especially when she’s on such a roll. “I do hope our Friends come through.”

“How long has it been since you asked for help?”

“A few days. I’ll go check once the sun is up. If they haven’t found anything, I’ll start looking on my own, maybe speak with a few of my contacts…” And if that fails, she can ask Sister Leliana for help. It’s been a long while since they last spoke, but Cerise is confident that the woman can find something for her.

“I feel like you have very little faith in Friends,” Harea notes.

“I’ve never asked for their help before, I’ve only given help. I don’t know the extent of their reach.”

“You should give them more time, if they haven’t come up with anything. They might surprise you. Another slice?”

Cerise looks toward the shopfront. The sky isn’t visible from the ground floor, but the street is still fairly dark.

“Yes please.”

***

It’s nice to be out and about early in the morning.

The sun isn’t up yet, but Cerise can see a thick line of blue far in the horizon. The morning chill feels good after the night air, and the wind makes her mouth water with the fragrance of wildflowers and freshly baked bread… She would love to idle around, but she’s got work to do.

In one of the upper walkways, there is a small alleyway.

Most people mistakenly think that it leads to the entrance of a private residence, so they avoid it, but it leads to a tiny balcony overlooking the river. It would be a pretty spot for lovers were it not for the potted shrubbery someone saw fit to place there. It’s the tiniest, most pathetic thing; it sees very little sun and possibly no water, and flies keep buzzing about as if circling a corpse.

It’s the perfect hiding spot.

After swatting away the flies, Cerise reaches through its gnarled branches to retrieve a small, painted box. The first time she saw it, she thought it was merely a cheap trinket; just a flimsy wooden box with dark swirls drawn all over it. It didn’t have any obvious openings, though.

When Harea showed her the box, she urged her to try to open it. So Cerise spent about thirty minutes looking for a way, feeling dumber than a druffalo with each passing minute. But she managed to crack it. There were two sliding panels on opposing sides, and they had to be moved at the same time until a soft click was heard, and that was her clue to slide open the top of the box. None of it was immediately obvious because the seams were flush, and the black paint served to hide them.

“All of this serves a purpose,” Harea explained. “First, the location. Then the box. If I hadn’t shown you both, you’d have no idea that this was here.”

“It’s not a very secure box though, is it? It’s wood. I could just smash it and make off with whatever’s inside.”

“I think someone keeps an eye on it. You know, to make sure that things are running smoothly and that no one gets in trouble.”

It still impresses Cerise that the system works despite all the unknowns. The people who frequent this spot don’t know one another; most of them know only the one person that introduced them to the Friends and that’s it. When they have a problem, they write it on a tiny piece of paper and put it in the box. More often than not, someone fulfills the request. And then there are rewards. Not everyone can afford to pay, but they give back by doing a job that’s more up their alley for free.

There are a lot of notes in the box, and Cerise goes through a few of them while looking for the one she wrote. Some of them were straightforward…

_Got into a bit of a problem and need quick coin! Help a friend out?_

_Desjardin likes to bad touch. Can someone kick him in his soft parts? I can pay._

…and others, just puzzling.

_I’ve got a case of Thibault Rose that needs to disappear, no questions asked – the stash is at the alienage, on the nearest climbable rooftop by the entrance._

And eventually, she recognized her own clumsy handwriting. She was careful not to give personal details; the more anonymous, the better.

_Got fired and need some information. Where can I stay for cheap? Are there any safe jobs? Reward for information._

She figured she’d maybe get a reply or two… but not seven! Five of them are warning her away from various places, one rather daft Friend suggests that she stay at the Chantry –she scoffs at the notion– but the last one… last one seems like a decent idea.

_L’Auberge, next to the University. Stayed there a couple of nights, owner’s nice to folks like us and gave me a discount. Had to wash dishes though._

Cerise has walked past the place before. It’s not the most prestigious of inns, but it’s a good choice for out of towners because of its cheaper prices. She can afford to splurge some of her savings for a room at the inn, perhaps come to an arrangement for a lower price and use whatever free time she has to look for a more stable job.

Reaching into her cloak, she retrieves the rewards – a handful of royals and her key into the Duval house. She considers leaving her mask as well, but decides against it, as it would open many more doors than the key itself.

She hides all that needs to be hidden, then makes her way out of the alleyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quieter chapter this time, but I hope it was still an enjoyable read.
> 
> I took some liberties in the way I handled communications between Friends, but to be fair, were we really told how they communicate? The box I describe is an actual puzzle box, it's called Tree In A Box and I've already given away the solution, sorry! But other similar puzzles exist, if you're into that sort of thing.
> 
> N7Krogan is still betaing, and she's now on Ao3!


	9. Au revoir

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unbeta-ed, this time. Because I couldn't wait to post it. I hope you'll enjoy nonetheless.

Mornings at L’Auberge are calm.

The main reason is that Cerise wakes up a good hour before the majority of the inn. The innkeeper herself wakes up even before her, to start the breakfast preparations – there’s a different kind of soup every morning and it’s become a bit of a game for Cerise to start the day by guessing what this morning’s soup is. The cup of tea on her table keeps her from being able to smell the ingredients, but she’s almost certain that the soup of the day is carrot – they had roasted carrots as a side the night before and a lot of it went uneaten.

Cerise knows that she should head out and help, but she can’t help it. It’s going to be another long day and her room is just so peaceful, with its high ceilings and whitewashed walls – though it definitely felt like a step down when she came in for the first time, having gotten used to a much more luxurious environment. Even the servant quarters at the Duval house looked prim; the walls were covered in panels of high-quality ash with gold inlays, and the hardwood floors always shone and never creaked under her feet. That being said, there were no windows there, but there is one here, and a large one at that. Sure, it doesn’t have the best of views as it looks down to the much less manicured back alley, but it allows fresh air inside and she’s brought her bed closer to it so that she can watch the sky when she lies down.

Salroka won’t be pleased if she idles much longer, so she discards the loose leaves in her cup into the potted succulent by the bedside table and begins to get dressed – another part of her life simplified, as she can now get by wearing regular clothes and not expensive fabrics just in case someone important dropped by. The tunic is a bit scratchy on her back but at least she won’t be upset when she sweats through it. And thankfully, this job does not require high heels; she’s used to wearing shoes, however, so she puts on a pair of sandals. And then the hair, which requires nothing special – she simply twists a bun behind her head and uses a ribbon to keep it in place, away from her eyes.

Downstairs, she finds the eating area mostly cleaned. Someone has taken the time to grab last night’s dishes and mop all the spills; tables need a wiping for sure, but before that Salroka will probably ask Cerise to get rid of the sleeping elf in the corner. What was his name, Narcisse? As far as guests go, he’s on the more obnoxious side of things; loud, unabashed and way too proud of his coin which he spent on wine and Wicked Grace. He also enjoys the occasional elf bashing; he sent Cerise back thrice the other day because his morning soup wasn’t hot enough, and she could tell that this wasn’t just about him feeling superior against an employee, he wanted to put her down because she was an elf. Being a non-human herself, Salroka usually put her foot down when these things came up, but on this instance, she advised Cerise to ignore the man’s obvious identity issues because he paid for two weeks up front and that made him an important guest.

Ignoring the elf for now, Cerise makes her way behind the bar, grabbing an apron from the side and tying it around her waist as she steps into the kitchen. “Morning.”

“Morning.” Salroka’s back is turned to her; she’s standing on an apple box by the fire pit, stirring a large pot. “Have you seen Edyth, by any chance?”

“No.”

“Fifi?”

“Haven’t seen anyone,” Cerise clarifies. “Is everything alright?”

“Soup’s coming along nicely, but I have no bowls because one of them forgot to wash them last night. Edyth came by a few minutes ago, said she’d do it after waking up Whatshisname, did not return.”

“The elf is still sleeping.”

“Oh for…” She loudly drops the ladle by the sink and steps down from the apple box. “Why is nothing going my way today?”

“I’ll find Edyth, she probably got busy by the well…”

“Oh no. She is _not_ getting away without a good tongue lashing. I’ll handle that, soup needs more simmering anyway. You deal with the elf. He needs to be back in his room before folks come down for breakfast, understood? Do whatever it takes, just get him out of there.”

“Understood.”

***

Narcisse is still sleeping.

Cerise takes a moment to observe him. He’s slouched over the table, using his forearms as a pillow for his forehead. His hair is such a mess that you would hardly notice his ears sticking out if it weren’t for the silver loops hanging from the tips. His outfit is even more ridiculous than the sight of him. He’s got a white shirt with large, puffy sleeves and ruffled cuffs. No one in their right mind would walk around with such a thing, at least not without a tight-fitting, fashionable vest and perhaps a pair of brightly colored pants to add to the statement of the outfit, whatever that might be. Out of curiosity, she leans forward to take a look under the table and immediately straightens up.

He’s wearing riding breeches. Under that horrible excuse for a shirt.

She takes a moment to compose herself, steadily breathing in and out. Maker’s mercy, what was he thinking with this outfit? Does he not want to be taken seriously? This is Val Royeaux after all, and as ridiculous as it may sound, fashion is an important part of making an impression, and with this outfit, he’s making all the wrong impressions.

Ridiculous.

Cerise braces herself to touch his shoulder and lightly shakes him, hoping that'll be enough… but alas, he just grumbles under his breath and resumes his sleep. Determined, she shakes him again, this time a bit harder.

He grumbles again, but he’s much more coherent this time. “Just… put it on my tab.” And he’s back to sleep.

Well… Salroka wants him away, and she did tell Cerise to do whatever it takes… so Cerise leans towards his ear, gets way into his space and shouts: “Wake up, Narcisse!”

In flinching away from the noise, he actually falls from the chair. “Maker’s breath!” he complains as he struggles to get up. “Did you really just yell in my ear?”

“Don’t get righteous with me, I cannot take you seriously with that outfit.”

“What?”

“You wear a thing like that with those pants and you expect people to listen to you?” His outfit is hardly the main concern, but this needs to be said for the sake of all the people who will have the misfortune to see him… not to mention that this might be Cerise’s one shot at embarrassing the man and getting off scot-free. “This is Val Royeaux! You may call yourself Narcisse and pierce your ears to fit in with the right crowd but with that outfit, no one in their right mind will bother to give you a second glance. Now go back to your room before the guests come down for breakfast or they’re going to lose their appetite for sure.”

“Why would they lose their appetite?” he asks naively – clearly he hasn’t woken up yet.

“Because you reek of sour wine, you have drool on the corner of your mouth and have I mentioned your outfit yet? Because even a jester would dress better than you.”

He reaches for his mouth, looking sheepish for a moment, but a moment later he’s up on his feet and shouting right at her face:  “Whatever’s on my face is not your business! If I want to walk around with drool on my face, I will. And whatever I wear will look mighty fashionable because I’m an actor at The Grand Theater and a lovely person to be around, while you’re just… some… serving girl!”

“My point exactly! Even a serving girl can tell that you’re wearing all the wrong things- wait, did you say Grand Theater? _The_ Grand Royeaux Theater?”

“Why yes, I did! Do you realize now how foolish you were to insult someone like me?”

Cerise is not listening to him anymore. She’d assumed upon hearing that he’s an actor that he was just passing by, perhaps as a part of some traveling carnival or some such but now that he’s mentioned it, he’s looking awfully familiar. In fact… “Wait, I remember now! I’ve seen you before.”

“They let you in?” he blinks.

“You were in The Massacre of Kirkwall, weren’t you? Yes, you were! You were playing the rebel mage, which means you’re not working at the theater anymore. You got fired!”

The play was received horribly by the masses because the author decided to write Anders not as a traitor to the Chantry, but a misunderstood rebel who only wanted to do right by his people. It was the Royans’ favorite gossip material for weeks, and a lot of people started to avoid the theater in case their alliance to the Chantry was questioned. The people in charge of the theater were displeased by the lack of money coming in, so they publicly denounced the writer and fired the actor playing Anders, and he’s now standing in front of Cerise.

“It’s just a misunderstanding!” he shouts indignantly. “I’ve been in many plays and people love me. I’m still an actor there, I’m just… not acting for a while.”

“Are you getting paid?”

“Well…”

“You _were_ fired!”

“Keep your voice down!” he hisses, briefly looking towards the kitchen. “Okay fine, I was fired! But I’m sure they’ll hire me back, I’m one of their best. I just need to make it on my own until then, which I’ve managed just fine.”

“You said ‘put it on my tab’,” Cerise accuses. “When I was trying to wake you. You’ve squandered all your coin on wine and cards and now that you ran out, you want it put on your tab! How stupid are you to think this will work?!”

She goes behind the bar to take out what the employees have taken to call The Big Book – this is where Salroka keeps track of her finances, and if she was putting things on the tab for Narcisse, that’s bound to be in here, too.

“Just listen, will you? I’ve got another week here, and I’m working on getting my job back. Once I do, I’ll pay her what I owe, and I’ll pay you to keep this quiet. What do you want, ten crowns? Twenty? Fuck it, let’s make it an even royal, that’s probably a week’s worth of pay for the likes of you.”

“Do you really think insulting me is going to get you what you want? I make at least twice that in tips in one day.” Cerise finally flips to the right page and squints at Salroka’s horrid handwriting. “Maker’s blood, you’ve managed to owe twelve royals in two nights? What did you do, drink liquid gold?”

“I’m used to a certain lifestyle!” he defends himself. “I couldn’t drink the swill you call house wine. It tasted like despair.”

“Because drinking good wine is far more important than having a roof over your head,” Cerise rolls her eyes. “I’m not going to betray Salroka. She hired me when I was desperate. You, on the other hand? You kept running me around the whole time you were here, and you insult me even when you need my help.”

“I wasn’t trying to insult you! I honestly thought that would be fair.”

“How about the soup you sent back three times? How about standing behind and watching while I scrubbed your bathtub because there was a fleck of dust in it? Even if you had solid reasons for being so utterly unpleasant, which you don’t, why would I ever risk this great thing I’ve got with Salroka to help someone like you?”

“Because…”

“Hmm?” Cerise makes a show of waiting for a reply, crossing her arms and raising a brow.

“Because I need you to,” Narcisse says, eyes down on the counter. “I have no excuses for treating you the way I did, I can only apologize and promise not to repeat my mistakes. But if you tell Salroka, she’s going to kick me out and I’ll have nowhere to go until I get my job back. And I can’t do that while I’m on the streets. So… please.”

“I have to tell her.”

“Do you want me to beg? I-”

“If I’m going to help you, I’ll do it on my terms,” Cerise cuts him short. “I will tell Salroka that you can’t pay your tab, but convince her to let you stay. We’ll subtract your tab from the amount you paid up front for two weeks of stay, which means you’ll have to check out three days earlier.”

“But-”

“You’ll have four days left to stay. It’s the best I can do.”

Narcisse begins to shake his head. “There is no way I can do this in four days.”

“Then hire me to help you. I’ll accept late payment, but it’ll cost you far more than a single royal.”

“You? I mean, no offense, but… you don’t look all that bardly to me.”

“That’s because I’m not,” Cerise shrugs noncommittally. “But I’ve done similar things before.”

“I’d say I’d have to think it over, but I don’t think I have a choice in the matter… Are you sure you can convince Salroka, though? She didn’t seem all that convincible to me.”

“I can convince her, but you better not be around when she is – in fact, just stay out of her sight until I get things sorted.”

Narcisse disappears behind the corner and a moment later, Cerise hears him go upstairs. With a sigh, she shuts The Big Book and goes back into the kitchen to help Salroka get ready for the breakfast rush.

***

Salroka is less than pleased when she gets around to telling her. She’s even less pleased by Cerise’s suggested solution.

“Why would I let that nug humper stay another minute at my inn after he tries to screw me over?” she rants, her knife strokes getting louder and louder against the chopping board. “Find Fairfax and tell him to throw the elf out.”

“I understand your anger, but there’s nothing to be gained from kicking him out. If we proceed with my idea, however-”

“Is he offering you money to convince me? Is that it? Or are you two in a different sort of cahoots?”

“Erm, whatever do you mean?”

“He’s an elf. You’re an elf. It wouldn’t be a long stretch to assume-”

“I’m not even going to dignify that with a response,” Cerise replies, heated. “I will say, however, that acting out of anger will get you nothing. If you look at the big picture, you’ll see that it’s in your best interest right now to let him stay.”

“In my best interest, or yours?”

“If you forgive this error of judgment, and if I succeed in getting him his job back –which we both know I will, I’m no stranger to jobs like these– we’ll both have a rather grateful contact at The Grand Royeaux Theater who might just be grateful enough to talk up your establishment to visitors from out of town, visitors that might otherwise choose to stay at… oh, I don’t know… Chez Léone?”

It was a good call to mention Chez Léone; Salroka hates that place for some reason and she reacts to the mention of that place by spitting on the floor. A second later, Fifi comes by with the mop to clean the spot and scampers away.

“You have an opportunity here, the kind that does not come by often. I advise you not to squander it.”

“What do you get out of this, then?” Salroka asks. “Because you wouldn’t be pointing this out for my benefit only.”

“Why wouldn’t I? You’re my boss. You get more customers, you might just give me a raise one of these days.”

“I’m already paying you a fortune, considering you’re staying in one of my rooms!”

“Just think about it, at least? I’m not going hungry or anything, but… the extra coin would be marvelous.”

“Do with Narcisse as you wish,” she concedes, “and if what you were saying earlier proves to be true, I’ll think about the raise.”

Cerise smiles – she knew that the mention of a raise would distract her.

“I’ll leave you to your cooking,” she says. “Let me know if there’s anything else you need.”

***

Cerise has no idea how things work at the theater, so it falls to Narcisse to fill her in.

Theater hierarchy is confusing, at least to her. As Narcisse gives information on the various people that help run the place, she falls deeper and deeper into boredom; the names start to blend into each other after a while and her eyes glaze over as she listens to all the things that will probably never be useful to her outside of this specific job.

“Listen,” she cuts him short. “I don’t need to know about your costume makers and stage designers. If I need to at any point, I’ll ask. For now, let’s try to stick with whoever fired you.”

“That’d be Jeanne Thibault, the communications manager.”

He hasn’t even mentioned the communications manager… just how long would he have gone on had Cerise not interrupted?

“I thought the Thibaults were in the wine business,” she says.

“Marquis Thibault is. Marquise, however, has been working in the theater for quite a few years now.”

“What does she do exactly?”

“Public relations. She was the one to come up with the plan to save the theater after the massacre of _The Massacre of Kirkwall._ ” Narcisse chuckles at his little joke, but seeing no reaction from Cerise, clears his throat. “She somehow got the others to agree, then fired me.”

“So it was her idea?” Interesting. “How did that conversation go?”

“Poorly. I got the feeling that she had it out for me and this whole thing was just an excuse… on the other hand, my presence had been extremely beneficial to the theater, so I don’t know why she would go out of her way to be rid of me.”

Cerise can think of two reasons, on both sides of his head. The theater has always been a bit more elf positive when it came to actors, but individuals can be prejudiced and it doesn’t have to make sense. 

“How in Maker’s name can you pull this off?” he asks. “Aren’t you just-”

“A serving girl?”

Narcisse has enough decency to look embarrassed.

Luckily, Cerise knows where to begin. She has very little memory of Marquise herself, but anyone who pays attention knows that there’s a fierce rivalry going on between the Thibault family and the Rousseau family; the latter produces the ever popular Rousseau Red, which remains one of the most popular brands in Val Royeaux, while the former produces Thibault Rosé – another good wine, but not as staple as red wine. Lately, this rivalry has been affecting both brands however; openly showing a preference to one of the two might cost you the friendship of ones who prefer the other wine, so people have taken to serve other brands during parties, though the majority of Royans prefer a nice glass of Rousseau in private.

The Duvals preferred Rousseau as well, not because it’s better, but because Madame once saw a shipment of Thibault arrive at the Renaud estate and decided to serve Rousseau at an upcoming soiree to put their feud on full display. Quite a few bridges were burnt that evening, but that’s what exactly what she wanted.

Explaining all this to Narcisse wouldn’t be that difficult, but despite his apologies, Cerise hasn’t forgotten the way he treated her before; it would be fair to let him stew in his curiosity.

“I need to be off now,” she says. “But I’ll stop by tomorrow morning to let you know how it went.”

After making sure that there’s no one in the hall, Cerise leaves Narcisse’s room. She’s made arrangements to have the next few hours until the dinner rush begins. By then, hopefully, she’ll have enough knowledge to set a plan in motion; until then, it’s time for a bit of legwork.

***

Her first stop is the apothecary.

Harea is in the middle of dealing with customers and ignores Cerise for a good half hour until they leave, but then pulls the younger elf in for a hug. “Good to see you again,” she smiles. “How have you been? I’d offer tea, but customers keep pouring in.”

“I’ve noticed. Have you come up with a new miracle?”

“Who has the time to experiment anymore? They all come in asking for moisturizers and lip balms, I barely have enough time to restock. That being said, business is good enough that I’ve been thinking about moving to a bigger place or hiring people to take care of our staple products.”

“I doubt you would trust someone else with your recipes.”

“Fair point.” Harea sits down on a chair and invites Cerise to do the same. “So, what can I do for you today? I doubt you’re here for my face creams.”

“You’re right. I came to ask you about someone, perhaps they’re a customer of yours?”

“They might be if they’re noble. What’s the name?”

“Thibault.”

Harea’s eyes narrow. “Marquis or Marquise?”

“Either would do, though my main focus is Marquise – she’s upset a friend of mine, I promised to look into it.”

“A friend of yours? One of Jenny’s?”

That’s what Cerise was trying to insinuate, but she can’t outright lie about it. “Not quite, but it’s a similar case and if I make it right, I’ll have a brand new contact – one that would be useful to both of us, if you help.”

“Sounds good, but I doubt I can. Marquise is indeed a customer of mine, but she’s never graced my shop with her presence; she always sends her maid. I tried to chat her up when she first visited, but she’s quite tight-lipped.”

“I see,” Cerise murmurs, doing her best to hide her disappointment. “No matter, I’m sure I’ll find something on my own…”

“Hold your horses, will you? I might have something. I’ve never looked into it, but if you’re sure about this new job, it might be worth your time.”

“Go on?”

“A few months back, I decided to get a bit more professional about my appearance – I’m selling beauty products, after all, it’s only fair that I look beautiful myself. So I bought a cheap mask to keep my identity a secret and went to buy some makeup from that posh place everyone’s been raving about. But because my mask was so cheap, they thought I’m just a random nobody, so I had to wait quite a bit. I didn’t mind though, it was a prime opportunity to hear the latest gossip.”

“And?” Cerise presses, feeling impatient.

“About two hours in, a sweet young thing comes in. I noticed her immediately because she was pretty much covered in freckles, but she was rather well dressed so the clerk immediately rushed over to suggest some products. But she wasn’t interested in skin products, she just came in to ask about a perfume, specifically one worn by Jeanne Thibault. I didn’t think much of it at the time, because who wouldn’t want to smell like Marquise? But I noticed a couple of servants quietly whispering among themselves. So after she bought the perfume and left, I started listening in on their quiet chatter. One of them was convinced that the freckled girl was Rousseau.”

Oh, that is _good._ “Are you certain? They said Rousseau?”

“Well, one of them claimed she was, but the other one wasn’t sure, and it was their turn to purchase shortly after so they stopped talking. At the time I didn’t think much of it, I had other things on my mind. But like I said, it might be worth looking into, if you’re certain about doing this job, whatever it is.”

“It’s a good starting point. It should take me a few days, but I’ll let you know what comes of it.”

“Please do. Oh and, don’t forget – I want in on this new contact of yours.”

“Of course,” Cerise says, even though she has very little interest in introducing Harea to Narcisse – she’s always been somewhat possessive of her contacts, but if this rumor is true… she’ll be in debt for sure.

***

_This might be the dumbest idea I’ve ever had_ , Cerise thinks to herself as she sweeps a dust bunny away with the side of her arm. Until now, she has preferred to play her role from behind the scenes, avoiding direct contact at all costs, but this needs to be handled as quickly and efficiently as possible and that cannot be achieved without making an impression.

The servants have been scurrying in and out, carrying buckets and buckets of hot water in preparation of Marquis’ bath while the man is lounging on the bed she’s hiding under, his weight effectively tightening Cerise’s space. He’s whistling a happy tune as he’s leafing through a book, sounding way too cheerful for a man who’s about to spend the rest of the evening away from the light of his life. Cerise has heard nothing about a man having a lover, but she’s only had a day to prepare and it’s quite possible that she’s missed that tiny, but highly relevant detail – if he’s expecting a visit tonight, she’ll have to be quick about things to avoid being seen.

“Your bath is ready, Marquis Thibault.”

“Finally,” says the man, and Cerise feels his weight on the bed shift. “Bring me my robe.”

There’s not much to be seen from under the bed, but Cerise still shuts her eyes when she hears the various belts and buckles come undone. She’s never had to help Monsieur Duval get dressed or undressed, but she knows Orlesian fashion doesn’t exclude men from wearing layers and layers and indeed the servant sounds like she’s having a hard time removing each item.

“You may leave,” Marquis informs the servant. “I do not wish to be disturbed.”

“Would you like-”

“Go!”

Hearing his interactions with the servant, Cerise is glad that the man is about to take a bath even though it had made her reluctant at first. But now, the idea of having this large tower of a man in that disadvantageous position sounds far more appealing – she’ll have the element of the surprise, and with some luck, she might even manage to intimidate him, leaving a far better impression.

Once she’s certain that the man is gone, she crawls out from under the bed and lets out a relieved sigh – it was tough not to sneeze amidst all the dust. She approaches the grand mirror to make sure her little foray under the bad hasn’t ruined her carefully picked outfit. The mask she’s wearing is an ordinary one, and she drops the hood of her capelet to make sure the knot at the back of her head hasn’t loosened. She then pulls the hood back on and makes sure that the strands of hair that have come loose from her braided bun are tucked under, pats the dust off of her trousers and makes sure that the stolen dagger is hanging from her belt in just the right way.

And then the weight of what she’s about to do settles in. This is possibly the most dangerous plan she’s ever made, and there are a number of ways for this to go horribly wrong for her. But things have gone her way so far, and if she keeps dawdling, she’ll ruin her only shot at this.

It’s time.

After one last look at her reflection, she hastens towards the bathroom door and bursts in.

“What in the name of-”

“Do quiet down, Marquis. Once you hear what I’m about to say, you’ll thank your past self for not alerting your servants to the commotion.”

The man had once settled comfortably inside the lion-footed tub full of hot water and bubbles, but at the moment he simply looks alarmed, and just a touch angry to have been interrupted like this.

“I’ll trust you to keep your temper in check,” Cerise murmurs, placing a hand over the dagger. “My patron wishes for the matter to be handled peacefully, but I will defend myself if you force me to.”

“Who sent you?”

“Someone who frequents the Grand Theater and wishes for a familiar face to return.”

“The theater?” he sputters. “But- but that’s my wife’s-”

“I know you have far less influence over the Theater than your wife – but that is precisely why I was told to speak to you. You can convince her.”

“Convince her to what? And why in Maker’s name would I care? I’m a man of business, not-”

“Because my patron is in possession of knowledge that might ruin your business and leave your good reputation in tatters. Marquis, were you aware that your wife is having an affair with Monsieur Rousseau’s beloved daughter?”

He goes very still, and his expression makes it clear to her that this is coming as a bit of a surprise to him.

“Would it not make things horribly difficult for you if that knowledge were to come out?” Cerise queries. “What would they say? That you weren’t manly enough to keep your wife proper company that she would seek it from a woman? That she had so little respect for you that of all the women, she chose Clémentine Rousseau as her companion? What would become of Thibault Rosé, then? What would become of this big and lovely house of yours?”

She pauses for her words to make an impact on him.

“My patron wanted me to tell you that they are willing to destroy whatever proof they have.”

“Clearly not out of the good of his heart,” he grumbles.

“Like I said before… my patron absolutely loves the theater, but she dearly misses seeing Narcisse on the stage. The poor boy was fired after _The Massacre of Kirkwall_ , but many miss him to this day. Marquise was the one to send him away, it’s only fair if she takes pains to bring him back. And who better to convince her than her dear husband?”

“Fine. I’ll see what I can do.”

“I advise you to be quick, though. My patron has been patient so far, but no more. If Narcisse is not back in two days… I’ll do you the courtesy of not repeating myself, as the ramifications of that should be clear to you by now.”

Cerise approaches the tub, hand still over her dagger… but at the last moment, she removes it to take the glass of rosé resting on the side of the tub and sips it.

“Delectable,” she coos. “I should purchase a bottle before it goes out of style, hm?”

She smirks at his attempt to cover his bits by arranging the bubbles, then turns around to leave.

***

The next evening, just as she’s about to retreat to her room, someone stops her by grabbing her arm. Ready to tear whoever it is a new one, Cerise turns around, only to be faced by a wild-eyed Narcisse.

“My miracle!” he exclaims, and before she can register what’s happening, plants a hasty kiss onto her lips. “My muse! Just how did you do it?!”

“What are you-” did he just bloody kiss her?! Blood rushes to her cheeks as the man begins to twirl her as part of some unknown dance.

“When Jeanne summoned me, I could not believe it! But it’s true! She was furious – whatever you’ve done to help me must have hurt immensely – but she was so desperate for me to come back that she agreed to all my terms! I even got her to pay me!”

Cerise is starting to get dizzy. “Good, but would you stop-”

“And then I went to pay rent immediately because I am not staying in this horrid place any longer than I have to. You should have seen my landlady! She nearly swallowed her tongue whole after seeing all the money I had. It was brilliant! I could die of happiness right now.”

“And I could die of nausea if you don’t stop dragging me about!” Cerise pushes him away and throws a panicked look to the rest of the hallway. Luckily nobody is around to witness this insanity. “What is the matter with you?!”

He’s so caught up in it that he’s not even listening to her. “I intend to thank you properly, of course, a handful of coin doesn’t even begin to cover my gratitude – that being said, I know you’re expecting payment, so I did bring some. Here…”

He digs into his pockets to bring out handfuls of coin; most of them are crowns, but there’s definitely some pennies and even a couple of royals in there; with each handful she receives, her brows rise higher and higher. This is easily the most generous payment she’s ever received. “I don’t need any more thanks,” she begins, “this is plenty-”

“Nonsense,” he cuts her short. “You’ve got me my job back in just a couple of days – it would have taken me a lot longer to find my way back. You deserve something special.”

Cerise finds herself at a loss for words because of the way Narcisse is looking at her, because nobody has ever looked at her like that before. When the occasion called for acknowledgment, Madame would allow the small quirk of her lips to convey praise. Salroka is not the type to express gratitude, but Cerise suspects that she sometimes add an extra crown or two to her tips. Harea is the most honest of them all, both in her words and in her expression; but their friendship is based on mutual gains, and when her eyes glint, it’s because of that, not because she’s impressed with her friend. The look Narcisse is giving her is full of astonishment and adoration – or perhaps she’s misreading the situation because of the kiss he’d given her out of pure joy, because that was a first for her as well.

“What did you have in mind?” she asks, attempting to feign nonchalance.

Narcisse’s smile widens. “Take a few minutes, then come up to the roof.”

The roof is easily the least attractive part of the building, at least for Cerise, because that’s where all the birds like to spend time and it’s up to Cerise to go up there once a week to scrape the sun-baked poop off of the stone. But Narcisse leaves before she can mention any of this, so there’s not much she can do but go inside and indeed take a few minutes to wash off and rest.

And then she goes up to the roof, half convinced that this experience is going to be as tiresome as the man himself.

The first thing she notices is the sky, because she’s never been up here at night. She doesn’t remember the last time she’s seen so many stars, and they leave her breathless.

“Impressive, I know,” says Narcisse, as if he’s responsible for them. He’s settled on the north facing side, with a small table and two chairs. “Come, come. I did not call you up here just to gawk at the sky.”

He’s standing beside two chairs, and a small table with an equally small but delicious looking cheese platter. As Cerise approaches, he picks up a goblet and begins to pour some red from a pitcher. Now that she’s gotten a full picture of what’s in store, Cerise is a little more hopeful of the night, so obviously she attempts to play it down.

“What have we here? Wine and cheese. How original.”

“Hey, I worked hard on this,” he grins. “It should be better than whatever scrap you’ve managed to consume whilst babysitting the entire inn.”

He’s not wrong.

Narcisse gestures for her to sit, then hands her the goblet. It’s probably not going to be good wine; Madame used to avoid pitchers like the Blight, claiming that people only use them to keep the origins a secret. Cerise takes a small sip nonetheless and realizes with a small amount of surprise that she has no idea what it is. As she goes through various wines she’s tasted over the years, Narcisse passes her a slice of pear topped with cheese and it tastes so divine that she can barely hold back a moan of pleasure.

“How did you put together all this at this time of night?” she asks after another mouthful of wine – way too large of a sip for polite company, but it tastes that good.

“How did you get me back in Thibault’s good graces?” Narcisse retorts.

“I concede.”

“We needn’t concern ourselves with such trivial things when the night is so pretty, no? Look at the stars, the moons, the city only half asleep…”

“Oh look, if you crane your neck just the right amount, you can definitely see a portion of Miroir de la Mère.”

“No.”

“What do you mean? It’s just there-”

“I refuse to believe that this dump gets to have that view while my own house does not.”

“This dump happens to be my home, so watch what you say about it.”

“Really?” Narcisse asks, his expression incredulous. “You consider this place, of all places, your home?”

“I’ve seen worse places.”

Cerise looks down at the city and its various paths bathed in the moon glow. It’s easy to find the sight pretty when she doesn’t have to spend her nights looking for a place to lay her head. The thought hurts her heart, so she heals the hurt with another sip of wine and turns her gaze to the sky instead.

“Tell me of the places you’ve been, Narcisse. What trouble were you up to, before the Grand Theater? You weren’t an Alienage boy, were you?”

“Alienage? No way, not in a million years. No, I come from Montford – well, a small village outside of it.”

“What were you doing there?”

“Serving, believe it or not.” Narcisse laughs. “My family worked at a small winery, so I grew up helping my parents.”

“You’d think that you would not bully servants after experiencing what that’s like first hand, but apparently not.”

“Hey, I’ve never bullied.”

Cerise raises a brow at him.

“Fine, I may have… bullied you a bit,” he admits then. “But that wasn’t because you were a servant. You always looked at me in that same judgmental way, like… like I didn’t deserve things. At first, I thought you simply didn’t like me, but then I saw how you treated other elves.”

“Excuse me? I don’t mistreat elves, I’m an elf!”

“Exactly. They would come in for a drink, covered in sweat and complaining about whatever it was that their nobles asked them to do that day, and you were always the first one to give them a sympathetic ear. Because they did what other elves did, but not me. I wasn’t a servant, I had coin and I didn’t cringe away from humans. I didn’t fit into your world.”

Cerise opens her mouth to deny his claims, but it doesn’t come as easy as she thought. Under the weight of his words, she doubts herself. She remembers instantly being annoyed at the sight of him, but for the life of her, she cannot remember why. Why was she so bothered by his presence?

“But we’re past that,” he offers quickly. “We’re through that. Tonight opens a new page for both of us.”

“What page?”

“Friendship, or something akin to that. If I’m lucky. Then again, I’ve always been lucky – otherwise I’d never find my way into The Grand Theater, and I certainly would not have met you.”

Narcisse raises his goblet at her, and she hesitantly follows suit.

“I do not know if you’re right in your assessment,” she says, “but if I’ve indeed made you feel inferior, I apologize. That is not a good way to feel.”

“And I apologize for bullying you to make up for the way I felt.”

“To friendship, then?”

“To friendship.”

Their goblets clink against each other, and they both down their glasses.

It’s a confusing thing, friendship; at least when it’s for the sake of friendship and nothing else. Cerise puts the goblet beside the cheese plate and leans back for a view of the sky once more, but this time, there’s something tainting the view of the skies.

Narcisse’s goblet falls, but neither of them rushes to clean up the shards of glass and the spilled wine.

“Creators, what _is_ that?!”

It looks as though something tore the skies open. Are those screams that reach her ears? A burst of laughter? A roar of pure anger? She’s standing on the edge of the roof now, with Narcisse beside her, both of them transfixed on the giant wound far off in the distance, bleeding green all over.

“Maker save us,” she whispers, and her hand finds Narcisse’s, to grasp tightly. She’s probably not the only one to do so that night, as the rest of the Royans join them on the various high points of the city to watch the horror unfold.

Soon, the entire Val Royeaux is awake, silently watching and praying.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there it is. This took me the longest time, but we've finally reached the end. I might continue Cerise's tale one day, but probably not anytime soon.
> 
> Thank you all for giving this tiny little fic a shot. I had a tiny heart attack whenever somebody hit kudos, and comments always made my day.


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